Abrasions

The stone sits in a puddle of gray foam,

more tired than my own feet.

Six months of shifting crates in the cold

has left the skin on my palms

feeling like a dry sponge.

I’m supposed to be at the diner by eight

but I’m still here, scrubbing,

trying to sand the warehouse off my bones.

The rock is porous and light,

a piece of a mountain that gave up,

scouring the dirt until the water runs clear

and I can finally cancel the night.