Limestone Driveway

Watch me walk on rocks!

I lifted a tender young sole
from the soft, cool grass
and let it sink against the hot limestone driveway.
The other foot followed as I began to make my way
across the sharp bed of stones.

Look, it doesn't even hurt.

The other kids believed me, even though
my body language-- as if
outstretched arms and a hunched back
could somehow make my lighter,
could somehow save my little feet from
the self-inflicted sting--
betrayed me.

I was a little girl in the country,
barefoot, innocent,
and those are the kinds of games we played:
tests of endurance, of
how-long-can-you-go-
before-you-can't-take-any-more?

I am no longer a child,
and I live in a city with smooth,
even pavement as far as the eye can see.
I rarely go barefoot anymore,
except at home.

I suppose I must miss my scenic rural childhood,
because that irresistable simplicity in you
reminds me of it,
makes me treat your romance
like some nostalgic miracle.
I regard you as a savior
for your kind but practiced words,
occasional tiny scraps of security
you so nonchalantly throw me.

And as my friends look on
I explain that you were busy,
I explain that you were tired,
I explain that you were sorry,
even if you didn't say so.

Look, it doesn't even hurt.
Watch me walk on rocks.