Sit up here, feet.
Get a load off.
Come up here on the desk,
across from me at legs’ length,
so I can see you,
so I can thank you properly.
I want to thank you properly for
taking me everywhere I have needed to go:
Up the steps of libraries and
down the steps of basement restaurants.
Across the avenues of cities and
across the streets of small towns.
Along the hallways of hospitals
and along the corridors of schools.
On the paths of gardens, the trails of forests,
the sands of beaches, the grass of meadows,
the polished floors of gymnasiums.
Sit up here, feet.
How tired you look.
How weary you must be from carrying me
around on your shoulders all these years.
Rest a while, feet.
Soon enough will people
begin to whisper, hiding their mouths
behind their hands, that I look like
I have one of you in the grave.
