Hook and Grit

The shoe was mud-caked, stuck fast

to his foot, while the clock spun past.

I pulled the tab, a tearing sound,

the hook and loop, too loud,

right through my skull it went and stayed,

my nerves, frayed.

That RRRRIP. A small violence.

Like tearing tape from quiet skin.

It says: not ready, not ready yet, not done.

Like something snapped, and then it's run.

Again I pulled, the second shoe,

that grating noise, it saw me through

my last patience, my last thread.

The morning's gone, already dead.

Just sound, a friction, hard and fast,

but every time, it seems to last

too long, too sharp, a constant grind.

Leaving quiet nowhere left to find.