Shoes

Paper cutouts folded to fit

my back pocket. I carry them along

through bus ride and train tracks.

I’ll be gone for a few hours.

My daughters look forward to this

annual ritual. Now they need the stitch

and leather of a tougher kind. Last year’s

is now a hole with gaping sole.

On a blank sheet, small feet

leave the imprints of five and

seven years: a tabula rasa stained with

sweets and wide-eyed wonder.

As stories go on — retold

each night — the ever after is

another story much difficult and

less fabulous with every grinding hour.

Through a rack, I reach to feel

quality and craft well-polished, each

glisten carrying a tag that makes me

feel my pocket or reach for the door.

Feeling every strap and sole or

black lace to bind tender feet

I move with devoted eyes deeming   

how each step closes near the destination.

Which leads me home to you who

after hours of eager wait, wish to hide

your delight as I enter the door and you

run then jump straight at me,

barefoot.

HIGHWAY

My father picks up

a fern by the roadside.

As always:

I’d lay bare my arm

and he, uttering words

which pass for

incantation

slaps the green

leaf on my skin.

White imprints

left for our trip’s

duration.

I ask for a name, a handle,

some words to match what

burns white on both arms.

My father says:

Draw-a-line.

Miles on our trip as

the white figures

get smaller, into slow fade

then gone.

Quick as a slap

a smile well traded

without a need for words;

that’s as far as we’d go.

Draw a line.

Follow it by heart.

See how hurt always

brings you home.