Footprint

by Ian Fitzgerald

 

There’s a set of footprints came with father’s house:

old boots that only walk in the very middle evening.

Chained between the end of day and start of night

their owner watches by the kitchen sink with awe

as I tell off imaginary coworkers with introverted

courage, sing guilty songs only our ears can hear.

We practice a mutual blindness and a kindness

borne of necessity. I pretend I do not see his aged,

weary face in the dusking light, he blithely ignores

the fears I waft through his house and the dresses

I wear when my wife is away.

I have boots too, with heels

the size of Montana that make me almost as tall as my father.

Almost.

As the moon rises I trample his footsteps to the bed and

swear tomorrow my boots will tread somewhere else.