The New Grade

The smell of the crew is a heavy coat,

a lungful of dinosaur bones and oil.

They’re pouring a smooth, black lie

over the potholes we’ve lived with for years.

I stepped off the curb too soon,

my heel sinking into the soft, hot give.

Now there’s a pebble caught in the tread,

held fast in the black goo like a fossil.

It’s a perfect little stone,

trapped in the mess I can’t wipe away.

The road looks clean from a distance,

but it’s just more weight I’m carrying home.