Boom Man

There he was. Where did he come from? How did he know we needed him? I needed him. What a mundane and dull gray that was my welcome, every day, every night, the first thing I see, saw before Boom Man was there, was plain concrete wall.
He came and posted up on the wall, the wall that divided my senses from the 405. And if it isn't bad enough to live directly across the street from the 405, with the noise, noxious particulate matter dusting our lawn and lungs, and incessant vibrations, I have to look at an ugly, concrete wall holding the over-pruned freeway ivy from falling down.
And then there was Boom Man, waiting outside my door one morning.
"Yes! Wheeeew!" I shouted to him as I stood on the porch realizing the view had changed. Beautiful. Exciting!
"What does he mean?" I thought about it all day. Boom. Are we destined? In this concrete jungle only? Are we bound to skinny pants and exploding mentals from stress? Or is he just a cocky punk, stating how bomb he is, hiding behind the claim? He holds his can, representing his trade, making me ask questions. More questions than walls. He gave the wall a purpose, made me fantasize about his father...
He inspired me you know. I made my first stencils. I took down the cans. Somehow talked my friend into helping me add onto the newly realized canvas. We hit up around him. I lengthened his fuse halfway down the block, swirling under along the freeway. I figured Boom Man would be pleased he had been given a little more time.
Three days later it was all gone. Boom Man, my Boom Man...art, color, youth, change, a piece of creativity and slap in the face to the standardization of surroundings, of us, was gone. The city came and painted him away, buried him under their favorite color, gray. And I will miss him so, and try to remind myself he's still there, looking at me from underneath.