Left Heel

Gary — or Gerald — stood at the mic

and said thirty years goes fast.

I held my plate. I tried to like

the fondant rose. It didn't last —

the rose, the warmth, my patience with the room.

Second round of cake. The long

speech about what work gives. The perfume

of industrial carpet. Something wrong

with the heel — just a heat at first,

the shoe too new, the floor

concrete, no give. The worst

of it: the walk to the car. One more

careful step, the lean, the heel raised,

the tan sock showing where the skin

had gone. Drove home that way. Dazed

isn't the word. I'd been

standing since five-thirty.

Two days and I still stand wrong.

Gerald. Gary.

Thirty years goes fast.