Footing

We argued for forty minutes about the way

I talk to my mother on the phone,

as if the words I chose were just a play

or a way to keep from being quite alone.

Then she looked down at my feet

and asked why my laces were pulled so tight.

I’m sitting on her sofa, off the street,

but I’m dressed like I might leave in the night.

The clock on the wall began to swell,

each tick a hammer hitting a nail.

I wore my boots to hear her tell

me that I’m already halfway down the trail.