Poem #2,769 | Scuffs

There should be an ancient word
for such – but that hard surface is
too modern [& that effect offered
not seen ‘til tarmac’s sheen] – We
will be chalk replacements if sent
whole into resting holes – dusting
a box as loose excavations spill a
scattering of calcium carbonates
across that sweep of tar & stones
through cemetery gates down to
uneven roads [they dig with your
height in mind – not that you will
ever stand again] – Almost a drag
of now-wet confetti – or blossom
trodden in – I shall name it scuffs