At first light I went out again
and made my mark.
By the post office I made it
and at the entrance to the little park
and further on by the trash can that’s
always overflowing on Mondays;
near, but not too near, the swing set,
outside the nice bakery
where sleepy people stand in line
on weekend mornings
but never at the self-service bakery
where who knows how long the rolls
have been there or how many times
they’ve fallen on the floor.
And of course in the special place in front
of the house where she lives.
Never to be unfaithful,
never to be the inconsiderate lout.
The city knows me now, knows I am
here, consequential, leaving my traces
on steel and glass and concrete
and smooth old cobblestones.
Canny city dwellers and subscribers
to the morning newspaper
often recognize me
just by my smell.