Abrasive

The shower steam is a heavy fog

clinging to the tile.

I’m scrubbing off the city’s clog

in a way that takes a while.

I took the stone to my yellowed heel

to sand the pavement back.

It’s a gritty, porous kind of feel

filling up every crack.

A grey slurry circles the drain,

shedding the miles I’ve gone.

Trying to rub away the strain

of the shoes I’ve hurried on.