Latex

They painted the alley behind the pharmacy

a flat, industrial gray to hide the salt.

The brick is buried under two coats of cheap skin,

but the surface is tacky in the heat.

I pressed my palm against the corner

where the mortar is missing a tooth.

My thumb found the notch I dug ten years ago,

and the stone was still biting, still cold.

The gray is just a lie we tell the street.

Underneath, the wall is still the same jagged thing

that scraped the skin off my shoulders

while I waited for a bus that never came.