The word for
continuous
wicked moisture
through cinder
blocked.
The gloves
soaked in mineral spirits
have not dried.
Asphalt rubberized past
sticks to them.
Jeans too.
Told a self to keep it clean.
Tee shirt is already grease blacked.
The kind of mud that does not wash.
Does not wink and sigh
inside a dryer.
Cannot be music-ed away or
pixie dusted.
Fire the shopping bag
fuming mad
along route 8.
Shuttle the plastic beneath the seat,
beside the hatchet,
kissing distance from
a road yacht,
rust ready to jump fenders
arc spark stylie.
Hate trickles in,
200 pounds per square inch
along the foundation side
like a cat claw multiplying force
tip to bone.
One molecule
traveling at
with his mates
traveling the same
muzzle velocity.
Remember falling asleep
in Physics for Humanities and
less stress?
Water does not either.
The stink of lingering asphalt
coats everything tried on
to begin the day. Teeth brushed
brings black along the silk road.
Know the only way.
Make skin match,
stink the same.
