Hard Surface

The grocery list is wiped away,

leaving a dark, wet ghost behind.

I dragged a stone from the driveway today

to see if the grain was still as unkind.

It screeched like a bird against the board,

a sound that lives in the back of the jaw.

Everything we kept or once ignored

gets caught in that same gray, jagged flaw.

The sponge is dripping on the floor

while the stone slab dries back to dusty pale.

I don’t want to write on it anymore.

The truth is a heavy, brittle scale.