The Hot Pour

The neighbor’s driveway is a lake of ink,

a thick, black mirror that won't reflect.

The smell of it comes through the screens,

a chemical weight, heavy and direct.

There’s an iridescent shimmer on the surface,

a purple-green slick on the fresh pour.

It looks like it could swallow a shadow

and still come back asking for more.

An oak leaf drifted down from the curb

and got caught in the corner of the sludge.

It’s half-buried in the cooling gloss,

a brown wing that will never budge.

Maybe that’s how you fix a fracture—

you pour something boiling and dark over top

and wait for the air to go solid

until the little leaks finally stop.