Soluble

The kid from 4B left his game

strewn across the asphalt.

A lopsided square for the number eight,

cut off by a crack where the root

of the maple is pushing through.

It’s starting to mist.

The white lines are turning to milk,

running into the oil stains.

I picked up a stub from the gutter

and the dust got into the cracks of my skin,

dry and pale as a bone.