What You Can't Escape

My sock got soaked in the sink

while I was washing dishes.

Just my left one.

Warm soapy water.

I couldn't take it off—

I didn't want to drip on the carpet.

So I kept it on.

Every step was a squelch.

Wet wool against my sole.

The shoe sliding around with each movement.

I walked around like this. Twenty minutes.

The kitchen. The hallway. Back.

Each step announcing itself.

Each step a small failure.

I thought about just taking it off,

about how much I cared about the carpet,

how much I was willing to suffer

over something so small.

My foot got colder.

The squelch got louder.

Everything else seemed smaller—

the dishes, the news on the TV,

the fact that nobody was watching.

Finally I sat down.

Took off the sock.

Wrung it out over the sink.

The carpet was fine.

My foot was fine.

But I kept thinking about

how long I'd been willing to suffer.

How small things have a way

of taking up all the space.