The tar that clings

Black gloss pools around my shoe,

sticky weight drags at rubber sole.

Rain blurs the street, reflections skew,

and suddenly I’m not quite whole.

A corner store's flickering neon sign

shivers in the puddle’s dark embrace.

Memory sticks — like this tar, malign —

pulling me back to a shadowed place.

I try to lift but catch instead

this stubborn patch that won’t let go.

Like old regrets, it pulls my tread,

dark glue beneath, the night's cold woe.

And in the wet, the city sighs,

beneath my shoe, the past defies.