The Slab

The air off the street is a physical weight,

tasting like exhaust and the promise of rain.

I’m headed for milk before the store locks up,

watching my shadow stretch out on the gray.

Someone named Ray and a dog with big paws

left their mark here in eighty-two,

pressed into the wet slush of the city

before the sun could bake it into bone.

The sidewalk is biting the soles of my shoes,

a rough, unforgiving stretch of the world

that doesn't care if I walk it or not,

steady and flat and indifferent to everything.