Grounding

I stepped out for the mail and forgot my shoes.

The dew is a sudden, sharp shock to the arch,

a dampness that swallows the morning news

and slows down the rhythm of my daily march.

Between my toes, the crabgrass is a needle,

a dull green reminder of the dirt underneath.

I am thinking of the phone call, the wheedle

in my own voice, the lie through my teeth.

I should have just said it. I should have been brave

instead of hanging up when the ringing got loud.

Now I’m just standing here, a suburban slave

to the cold, wet earth and a passing cloud.