Black Spot

The tar caught me on Morrison Street,

that section where they're always digging.

One step and it was on my shoe,

thick and dark and still half-warm.

I scraped it with a stick.

Nothing.

I used the curb,

dragged the sole against concrete

until the rubber frayed.

The tar stayed.

That night I sat on the bathroom tile

with a screwdriver,

picking at it like it was something

I could separate from the shoe,

from myself.

But it had merged.

It had become part of the tread pattern,

another groove the sole would carry forward,

evidence that I walked through

a specific place

at a specific time

and didn't step carefully enough.

Now when I walk, I know it's there.

Under my foot.

Darkening everything

I press down on.