Footprints

    Declining the services of a towel,
    you walk naked and dripping from
    the shower, preferring the wrap of
    air to cloak your wet skin.  A line
    of bread crumbs sprinkled behind
    you would be easier to follow, or
    footprints pressed into a narrow band
    of tidal sand, perhaps a thin strand of
    coarse thread woven through trees.  
    But your feet leave me a trail of water,
    bean-shaped pools crowned by fans of
    toe-sized droplets, one on each step,
    your track evaporating before me as
    I trace it eagerly up the stairs.

                           __________

                    "Footprints" is forthcoming in The North American Review                    

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