It doesn't wash the city clean

It doesn't wash the city clean.

It just turns the soot into a thin, black milk

that runs down the curve of the curb.

The air tastes like wet asphalt and dog hair,

a heavy, gray coat that nobody asked for.

I stepped right into the gutter’s mouth

where a Sprite bottle and some rotted leaves

had choked the iron grate.

Now my left foot is heavy and cold,

the black dye of my canvas sneakers

bleeding onto my sock in a dark stain.

There is no renewal in this water,

just a slow, steady leak from a sky

that looks like a bruised throat.