Heel Stone

My heel, raw from the new shoes,

still has that hard edge,

a pale strip where the skin refuses

to give up its old wedge.

I found the pumice,

gray and light,

like a dried sponge left in the sun.

It fit my palm just right.

And I rub,

slow circle,

small grit falling like dust.

The water washes, a thin film,

down the porcelain,

carrying off

just a little of the rough.

It takes so long to smooth it out,

this hard place,

and I wonder how much more

will go,

before it's soft,

or gone.