Come to Our World

He steps from the smoke shop.
a fresh cigarette lit between cracked lips,
air thick with something more than habit.

A boy slashes color across the brick wall
in broad daylight
yearning for conflict.
Spray can hissing,
letters blooming in raw strokes:
'Come to our world'.

The man and boy lock eyes.
A likeness.
Same defiant brow,
same quiet fire.

He exhales.
The smoke drifts upward,
but the past
stands still.

The man walks on.
The boy is left behind
with a spray can.
One looks back
as the other treads forward.