The Tape That Shows

Someone tied blue cloth beside the crack, not over it.

Rain had written its receipt down the concrete. The wall kept both copies.

I had a roll of tape in my coat pocket from a parcel I never sent.

That is how repair begins: not with the right material, but with a hand that has been carrying the wrong one long enough.

Traffic passed overhead. The underpass counted it without lifting its head.

I pressed the tape down until my thumb knew the shape of the break.

The cloth did not save the wall. The tape did not forgive the rain.

But the crack had company. For one morning, that was the work.