We mixed it fast late afternoon

We mixed it fast, late afternoon,

my cousin's yard, October light.

I rushed the left edge—done too soon,

a ridge that set uneven, slight.

Twelve years. The house is listed now.

I find the photo, late, scrolling—

the back door, and the step. Somehow

still lopsided. Still holding.

Everyone who stood there—scattered.

The Quikrete didn't care.

It just stayed. I don't know what mattered

less to it: the flaw, or where

we all went after.

The strangers' boots on what I left.