She asked him how the pavement was

He shuffled over to it, dipped down, and then cussed

For she told me after he placed his hands in it: “You’re gonna leave a print”

He withdrew with warm-asphalt hands

He thought about all his plans

And then he looked to the tree across the street

Completely devoid of all its leaves

All the pavers and millers were finally still

Like he was

The butterflies and crows were the only thrill

And the blue sky faded to pink

In the air there was a stink

Mulch, perhaps?

He looked out at the clouds over the water, like a time lapse

He thought about the time he didn’t have

He looked back at the porch where his wife sat

She told him to get back

But he couldn’t – he was drawn to the black

This time he stepped his bare feet into it

In the warmth, his worries simmered

As the pavement hardened

He hoped he’d be remembered