Love, triumphant

Some child stood here
-- or perhaps a group of friends --
on this rusting bridge
in a remote country town
on a hot summer evening
with several cans of spray paint
and nothing better to do
than wave them in the air
and make a mark
-- no conscious design,
no words of bliss or fury --
I imagine it was quick,
for fear of getting caught;
a flourish of the wrist, and then move on,
leaving behind some smears
for the rust to gradually consume
and one lone photographer
to come along, years later
and find the message
carved on every heart:
Love, Triumphant.


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