Asphalt.

It rained today.

I could smell it
through my office window—
that hot, earthy smell
rising from the property
like the earth exhaling.

I found myself jealous of the asphalt.

Of every mile of blacktop
that leaves this parking lot,
threads itself through towns
I'll never bother to learn,
crosses state lines
without asking permission,
and eventually
finds its way to you.

Jealous that somewhere
the same pavement
is warming beneath your sun
while mine is slick with rain.

That it gets to exist
beneath both our skies.

That tomorrow
you might step onto it
without thinking.

Press your weight into it.

Leave something behind
without ever knowing
you'd made an impression.

Asphalt is good at that.

Taking the pressure.
Holding the heat.
Cracking quietly
beneath the weight
of everything that passes over it
and still stretching itself
mile after mile
toward wherever you're going.

Maybe that's why
I'm jealous of the asphalt.

It gets your footsteps.

It gets the weight of you.

It gets to carry you home.

And I'd let you
walk all over me, too.

As if
I don't already.