Hard Water Marks

The landlord’s 'fix' is a pile of rubble

bleeding gray dust onto the grass.

I tripped on a shard of it tonight,

a flat, sharp tongue of slate

waiting on the bottom step.

It didn't break my skin,

but it left a chalky smear on my palms

that smells like a basement floor.

I tried to scrub the stain away,

but the stone grit is stubborn.

It stays in the cracks of my knuckles,

heavy and cold as the man who left it there.