Two years I've known exactly where

Two years I've known exactly where

it sits—the dark circle, the drop

and catch. I was aware

of it Tuesday night. Couldn't stop

in time, or didn't try. I bit

the inside of my cheek. The coffee

went into the cupholder, split

across the ridges. Something softly

iron in my mouth the whole way home.

I filed nothing. Wednesday morning

I walked past the same dome

of open asphalt. No mourning,

no pause. I knew it before I saw it.

Stepped around the edge. Kept going.

Both hands in my pockets. The quiet

fact of knowing where something's wrong, knowing

it's been that way for two years,

and walking past it anyway.

The blood. The coffee. The same gears

of the road. I never filed. The same day,

every morning. The same dark circle.

The same inch of Clement Street.