Against the Brick

This café wall, painted smooth,

industrial beige, feels nothing

like the gritty brick on Elm Street.

My shoulder remembers

the cool, rough abrasion,

the faint smell of damp

mortar, exhaust, and rain.

It was a known pressure,

a kind of silent witness

to every bad choice, every good one.

Now, just this flat, indifferent plane.

My back misses the scrape.