Tread

The deli door exhaled its greasy warmth,

and I stepped. Right into it.

That greyish pink,

a flattened, chewed-out heart,

or lung,

clung fast. Like a bad thought.

No, worse. A bad smell.

Or the way a lie

you told yourself still clings,

a small, grim pebble

in the shoe,

you know? You walk

and feel it, shift your weight,

it’s there.

I tried the coffee stirrer, thin plastic blade

against the diamond pattern of my sole,

saw a bit of street grime

marry the gum.

People walked by. I felt

the slow burn of my face.

Just stood there,

bent at the waist,

my sneaker hoisted

like a broken flag.

It wouldn't budge.