Sonnet XIX: Gum Spots

This many people bought a pack of gum
or borrowed some, unwrapped it, chewed it up,
lost the taste, decided trash cans are dumb,
then spat. The wad, saliva filled, ends up
on concrete, trampled over, caked in silt,
transformed to liver spots. Then roots, the veins
beneath the sidewalk’s hide, make cracks that tilt
its speckled back like age or growing pains. 
Amount uncountable people walked this spot
underfoot my beat-up used-to-be-white
high-top kissing ground, both pieces of rot
grinding each other down with touches light 
enough to be ignored. Though soles wear thin,
one day they'll wear away this spat-on skin.