Aggregate

They poured the new sidewalk early this morning,

a wet, gray river between the old brick.

I saw where a bird ignored the warning

and left a small star where the slurry was thick.

It’s hard now. Permanent. A fossil of a flight

set in a mixture of limestone and grit.

I lean my shoulder against the bridge tonight

and feel the rough aggregate biting into it.

Everything is being covered in this flat, gray skin,

smothering the weeds and the soft, black loam.

There’s no place left for a root to get in,

and no place left to call a soft home.