Sticky footprints

I stepped hard on a patch of black gum,

a stubborn, slow-growing trap

that stretched thin between cracked concrete

and my worn rubber sole.

With each step it pulled—squelch and cling,

a tangle snagging memories like litter,

old afternoons stuck in the grit,

a mess I dragged with me through city streets.

I tried to scrape it off at the curb,

but the sticky shadow followed,

a secret residue of past mistakes,

a weight I couldn’t shake loose,

like grief caught beneath the heel,

pressing down with every step,

a quiet burden carried forward,

tracing lines I’d rather forget.