The holes in the heels of my shoes
admit snowmelt and tiny pebbles.
Slopping around the neighborhood,
exercising my fistulous heart,
I feel electric blue abstractions
riding the chill. Being alone

with the mist blown from the marsh
and the roadside puddles grinning,
I don’t have to explain to you
the absence that three quarters
of a century of living have imposed.

The short day draws on itself
like a gray man smoking a pipe.
I’d say, listen to the wind undress
the already half-naked trees—
but you’re at home stroking the cats
and reading about current events.

I’d say, look at the black winter brooks
chortling over stones cast up
by the last scraping of glaciers—
but you’re brewing ginger tea
and planning an early dinner
of spaghetti and cheap Chianti.

Holes in the heels of my shoes hurt
like scabs. My wet socks rumple
and threaten to blister my feet.
The pebbles grind and grind away.

You would tell me to buy new shoes
but these fit so perfectly                              
that discarding them would be sad
as the last amputation, the one
that leaves not a single limb.

– William Doreski