Sinkhole Logistics

I spent my eighth year planning for the bog,

reading how to lie flat and wait for a rope.

I thought the earth was hungry,

a mouth hidden under every patch of moss.

Today, I dropped the grocery list

behind the Delta Sonic,

and my left heel went down into the gray silt

with a wet, heavy sound like a boot filling with oil.

It wasn't a tragedy.

Just a ruined sock and a slow, stupid tug.

I saw a sneaker there, salt-stained and stiff,

poking out of the muck like a molar

the world had tried to spit out

but couldn't quite finish.