What Sticks

I felt something catch my shoe in the lot,

a small resistance, a small knot

that dragged with each step I took.

I didn't stop to look.

I could have bent, could have wiped it away,

could have examined it that day,

but I didn't. I just kept walking,

felt the drag, avoided talking

about it, about what was stuck

there, had run out of luck

or patience or curiosity.

All day it was part of me—

the suction, the pull, the small way

it changed my stride, my pace, my day,

and I chose not to stop,

chose not to let it drop,

chose to just carry it forward

like something I'd decided toward,

something I'd accepted, something stuck

that I'd decided not to give a fuck

enough to remove.

By evening, I'd come to approve

of it being there, had let it

become my stride, had let it

slow me down without questioning why,

had let it stick without asking me to try

to fix it or understand it

or look at it or handle it—

just carry it, drag it, let it

be part of me.