Poetry: Tracks

It wasn't your boots that left the trail

or your snowshoes now framed

against the wall your family photo

telling tales of how you arrived

your tracks didn't show as you

crossed that cold lake with a bucket of fish in hand.

New York city has heels,

stilettos, pumps, different degrees

in shoes and lack of heat but

I never saw your feet there.

I traveled like a troubadour

in the western hemisphere looking for love.

There's nothing less inspiring than a stiletto

breaking at the heel when crawling like a side winding crawdad into a cab.

Stuck in the crooked corner of the street

I envision those shoes climbing in beside me

round and irregular like two-dimensional

wicker baskets but crafts were never your thing.

And perhaps you are wiser than me,

you wouldn't have worn heels, but

you would be laughing beside me in this cab

one lopsided foot beside two rounded feet.

Both in the western hemisphere

with very different feet.

Mine imitate travel while yours navigate.

I wander down streets hailing cabs,

catching planes, crossing on ferries.

You conquer the last unconquered locations

just to see nothing again.

You say you like the quiet.

I tell you I hate the city.

These places like New York, Chicago,

aren't really for me, but you simply laugh,

nod your head, and silently disagree.

Perhaps people are like potted plants,

finicky with our soil, stubborn with our waterings.

Perhaps a plant, uprooted,

can still feel the heavy weight of northern dirt pulling its footing.

You invited me for Thanksgiving

and I know my ornament will be on your tree,

a sparkly bright thing, misfitting

for a wildlife theme: pointed antlers, fishhooks, and beads.

I'll return I'm sure when there's nothing left to see