footprints


winter of some year past
when snow was deep
and the memories of 
visits to the country
are laced with the smell
of pumpkin pie
sweating in an iron stove
fueled with the labor
of logs split and stored
against the cold

that was the winter when
he drifts were so high
there was no pushing through
in the oldsmobile 
and dad knew not to try

we left the car 
freezing by the turnoff 
and walked what seemed like miles
him in front making caverns
in the cold white path 
with his giant boots 
and me stepping carefully 
in each cleared space knowing
that following his steady tracks
i could not get lost



​jail shoes


he could have been a grown-up oliver
though not so innocent
still naively pleading 
please sir

his chart note stated casually
recently condemned to one hundred plus years
he may need mental health to check on him

he asked again for dispensation
not for pity or forgiveness
focused only on the heel, the right heel
the one that had been broken
thinking 
damn i can't do a hundred years
in plastic sandals 
i can't even do a week
and jail staff tell me
only medical approves special shoes

i wavered briefly
distracted by frigid, rigid rules
that spell out who
and why and when

i didn't know and quickly realized 
i didn't care why 
a hundred years
saw only a man in pain
and through him, family
torn by this recent reality
trying to comprehend
a sentence longer than life
asking only for the smallest mercy
something i knew was absolutely in my power
to grant or deny to someone not so innocent

he repeated his naive request
please sir
may i have my shoes




i am a dead man

​
he spoke with the politeness
expected by his culture
apologized for the physical ills
that were today's litany of need
i nodded, speaking nothing
until he paused, waiting for response

the small complaints were easy fixes
a pill, a pillow, a platitude
would satisfy his wants
but there was more beneath the aches
of back, of knee, of knobbed fingers
just as there is more than a simple shadow
that spreads below an autumn maple's golden leaves

i listened and i waited
squirrel on the trunk, watching for the fall
of the larger nut, the meaty one that holds
the past, the now, the future
a grief moved across his face
and he said simply, "i am a dead man"

he continued, excusing himself 
for taking up my time
"i am dead inside, 
unable to hold my grandson,
unable to care for my family, 
unable to understand exactly why i am here-
i am a dead man, inside"

he stood and walked away
leaving me speechless because
i had no resurrection to offer