More Darker.(Poem)

   Route 8's shoulder is a cindered sidewalk. 
   The four lanes are patch-iced, traffic one step 
   From where boys from the trailer court stop me. 
   "Safety patrol," one snorts, "pussy," snapping 
   The white straps crossed over my red jacket. 
   The badge blinks from early sets of headlights; 
   The biggest boy pulls on black leather gloves. 
   He mutters, "Patrol boy, you write this down: 
   `I died here, February 10,'" bends me 
   To the guardrail with a blue pen that skips 
   Along the metal's white and rust until 
   I stop where a string of fuck yous begins. 
   "More darker," I hear, and I go over 
   And over the letters. "So the police," 
   He says, "can read it ...