Friction

The leather is stiff and the walk was too far,

and the back of my heel feels a hot, red star.

I stopped by the post office, gripped by the sting

of a shoe that won’t soften for anything.

There’s a bubble of water, clear and thin,

a pocket of grief just under the skin.

It’s a tiny protest, a fluid defense

against the pace and the heavy expense.

I wanted to walk until I forgot

the way that we argued, the heat of the spot.

But the body remembers the rub and the grate,

and it forces a limp when you try to walk straight.