Stiff Leather

The carnations in the grocery aisle have that same

cloying, chemical sweetness that thickens the throat.

I saw a kid today at the stop, his mother checking his frame,

tugging at the polyester shoulders of a tiny, borrowed coat.

My own shoes were new back then, black and boxy and mean.

They squeaked on the linoleum with every hesitant step I took,

a rhythmic, high-pitched friction that cut through the scene

while the adults kept their eyes pinned down to a book.

It’s a specific kind of sound, the way hide fights the foot,

before the creases set in and the shine starts to dull.

I stood there in the lobby, covered in lint and soot,

listening to my own noise fill up the sudden lull.