I’m scraping at the heel of my left boot

I’m scraping at the heel of my left boot,

cursing a wad of pink gum that won’t let go.

The bodega has four new eyes in the soot,

watching the sidewalk in a steady row.

There is a red light blinking in a slick

of oily rainwater near the curb stone.

It feels like a judgment or a cheap trick,

proving I’m never quite standing alone.

I stop the digging and just walk away,

leaving a piece of myself on the street.

The lenses don’t blink, they have nothing to say,

recording the shuffle of my tired feet.