Something I Didn't Mention

One wet step near the lobby door —

I didn't notice until I was seated.

The meeting had already started.

The window to mention it was depleted.

An hour in I'd just accepted it:

the sock, the cold, the specific damp

working up into the heel.

Something to carry like a cramp

you don't stretch out in public.

When I stood to get more coffee

the shoe squeaked on the linoleum —

one clear note. I held the cup like a trophy

and walked back very carefully.

Nobody said a word. They wouldn't.

I sat back down and crossed my ankles

and listened to a man explain why we shouldn't

do the thing we were already doing.

The sock dried partially by noon.

I threw it out when I got home.

The meeting repeated in the afternoon —

same chair. My socks were dry this time.

Which is accurate. And means nothing.