Poured Earth

My shoes are too thin for the way the world is made.

I feel every pebble, every crack, every shade

of the sidewalk that stretches for three miles of gray

under a sky that has nothing to say.

I stepped on some gum that’s been there for a year,

a black, rubbery stain that’s grown perfectly clear.

It’s part of the path now, a permanent mark

like the weeds in the joints growing thick in the dark.

They push through the seams with a desperate green,

trying to break through the man-made scene.

But the slab is too heavy, the mix is too tight,

and they’ll be crushed back down before it gets light.