Momma always asked me "did you tie your shoes"
when I was too young to remember
what I did ten minutes ago. Stilled there.
At the barge beached on the shores of the Allegheny,
toeing the hatch where rain had something to say to
iron, melted away to mathematical functions and
infinite patterns that make for great calendars
and computer simulations,
my shoes falls
into the water
and I dove for it
and banged my teeth and chipped
another piece off with my arm down to where
fingertips touched lapping water.
Mouth closed, I sucked
on bits of rust like potato chips.
Rubbed my jaw
with a thought and a half about you.
Clicked on my light to find
the piece of tooth lost and wondered
at the chance that an open mouth
would catch the edge of the hatch
instead of shredding the skin
of my chin.
My shoe bobbing beneath me.
My rod still fast against the piece of bulk head
and barge lip where I left it.
Embarrassed while my mates
enjoy a chuckle and the fire we started
where sand has reclaimed the ship.
Embarrassed knowing you would have
held me back by the shoulder with your little left hand.
Embarrassed while I go shoulder deep into the hatch, careful
for yellow laces and wishing
today was not the day I chose to
leave socks at home in 40 degree weather.
