Coarse

The hydrangea is a dry skeleton now.

I hauled the root ball across the asphalt,

the burlap sack grating the skin off my knuckles

until the palms of my hands started to sting.

Fine brown dust settled into the denim,

coating the heat of my thighs.

I am tired of things that refuse to take,

the way the fibers itch under my nails,

leaving a trail of dirt on the floor mats

that I'll have to vacuum out tomorrow.