FLYERS

On lampposts

on phone booths

on bus stops and trains

they lie in wait

anticipating purview

by anyone who might be around.

Each flyer holds a face

a soul

a hope

a dream.

Each pale

each rain-soaked

each fragile.

They won't last long.

Soon, time

or some righteous storm

or an authority seeking to wipe the slate clean

will tear down the walls.

Soon, the flyers will fall

but not today.