Laundromat Sidewalk

It’s a specific kind of violence,

the way the sidewalk grabs my heel

and holds it in a long, gray-pink string.

I find a losing scratcher in the gutter,

using the edge of a 'Lucky 7'

to saw through the rubbery bridge.

Some stranger's spit and sugar

is now a permanent part of my tread.

I stand by the laundromat door,

scraping until the paper shreds,

just a man with a shoe in his hand

and a very small, very private grudge.