The Hot Pour

The smell drifted in through the bedroom screen,

that thick, mineral weight of a summer repair.

A crew in orange vests took over the scene,

bleeding black rivers into the humid air.

I watched from the glass as the shovel dipped

into the vat of boiling, viscous sludge.

It came out heavy, glistening and dripped

with a darkness that no water could budge.

It smells like the road to a house I burned,

or the roof of the garage where I used to hide.

A hot, stinging memory that finally returned

to seal up the cracks I'd been keeping inside.

They smoothed it over with a heavy, iron rake,

hiding the scars for the neighborhood's sake.