The black, brown, grey, sometimes mossy green
speckled
spiked
the rusty nails have overcome
the telephone pole is now more metal
than wood
what could have
should have
been
weathered scraps of gararge sale signs and lost puppy signs
stuck in the teeth of the nails
bent from the heads of hammers weilded by enthusiastic entrepreneurs
or through the sighs of tired single mothers
that lived here once
they left their mark
they left there mark
nails always driven in, but never taken back out