The Rhythm of the Heel

Thwack. Thwack. A rhythmic, wet interruption

with every step I take toward the station.

I lift my boot and see the pink, stringy corruption

of a stranger’s gum, a sticky, grey-edged frustration.

It’s gathered grit and a half-rotted maple leaf,

a matted mess that refuses to let the sidewalk go.

I scrape it on the concrete, seeking some relief,

but it just stretches out, a long, elastic 'no'.

It’s like every small resentment I’ve ever held,

clinging to the tread, making my gait uneven.

I’m walking with a limp, my momentum quelled

by a piece of sugarless rubber that won't be forgiven.