The Pour

They smoothed the sidewalk with a blade,

a flat, gray river in the shade.

A sparrow dropped from the power line

and left a mark that wasn't mine.

A three-toed dent in the heavy wet,

a permanent, hardening regret.

I touched the edge where the frame was set.

The grit felt like a wound not yet

closed up tight, a fresh, dry scab

against the cooling, heavy slab.

We pour our lives into the forms

and wait for the cold and the summer storms.