I know I am doing wrong
the moment I snap the picture
of the sign hanging over the sidewalk
along that part of Tinker Street,
and I tell myself I will
never post it anywhere
she can see it,
but I do, I am a tease,
an imp, a practical joker
whose humor causes grief
I do not intend.
I always think other people
will get the joke.
They never do,
and perhaps it isn’t a joke at all,
that sign symbolic of a past
that is not my own,
even though I have
passed beneath long before
I ever heard word of her,
an unnoticed bit of history
she alone might get
and would get angry over,
the way people get upset
when someone walks
on the graves of loved one,
I plant no flowers here,
I merely pass on
captured bits of things I see
and with the vague idea
I can see what these things mean.
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