The Damped Thing

Stepped right in it, didn't I?

A slick, flat sheet of city rain.

Now this cold clamp on my foot,

a slow, persistent pain.

That squelch in my cheap shoe,

a wet kiss from the concrete floor.

Every step, a dull drumbeat,

knocking at a locked door.

Cotton, heavy and cold,

like a lie you keep unwrapping.

An hour more of this damp pull,

my patience already snapping.

It's just a sock,

but it feels like everything wrong.