What is not mine

an old one from last year.

-

Rock,

the calm harmony of washing away.

Yet, even that feels softer than

New York City concrete.

Soil,

collection of what is life,

molds to the soles of my shoes,

and I am part of it.

I hit the pavement to home.

I am what I've walked on.

Rules are concrete;

Freedom is soil.

Synthetic;

and the grounds not of mine.