Ground Cover

The vacuum is wheezing, a tired old dog,

choking on gravel and bits of the fog.

The floor mats are holding a summer of grit,

and I’m tired of trying to get rid of it.

There’s a sneaker in the trunk, stiff and alone,

with a handful of beach where the arch is a bone.

It crunches like salt when I give it a shake,

eminding me of every mistake that we’d make.

The silt is in the vents, it’s under the seat.

The car is a desert of dust and the heat.

I’m selling the metal, I’m scrubbing the floor,

but the sand is the one thing that stays at the door.