Graffito

The white's still tacky on the bathroom stall
Where some poor janitor whitewashed graffiti.
Of course, he couldn't cover up them all;
As if by some invisible entreaty
Certain ones were spared the painter's brush
And still remain to dazzle with their wit
Which even at its fullest was not lush
So that we might well have dispensed with it.
But there they stand, the curses and the jokes,
Half-covered. I could add to them, I know,
And every instance of addition stokes
The likelihood that more of them will show.
But no. I'd rather read them silently
And not express myself in graffiti.