There is a rock in my shoe,
small and sharp as regret,
or maybe a lie by omission.
I lean against the table,
dump both shoes out—nothing.
Still, it presses into my heel
like an argument I can’t win.

She is crying in the kitchen,
her hands folded like wings,
her face a soaked roadmap to nowhere,
but I am bent over my shoe,
shaking it again, harder.
The mystery of this is louder
than her voice saying,
“I can’t do this anymore!”

I lace the shoe back up,
the phantom rock still there,
or not there,
and walk out the door
to feel it all the way down the street.