top of page

Mark Belair


I found kinship
in a traffic light
that cycled 
all night
in the deserted 
outside my motel.

Years later, in a soft evening rain,
I found it again
in an overstretched 
black garbage bag
by a dark restaurant.

Then late in life, when I spied
an old, disused subway car
in a dimly lit corner 
of the train lot
at the end of the line,
and saw
how its splashes of graffiti 
made it seem simultaneously
assaulted and beautiful,
I had to admit
that its grace was something
to see—if apart from me.

bottom of page