She asks me how I hurt my leg
when I show up with a cane and bandage,
stumbling into the office like a zombie
not a warm greeting,
yet interested enough,
perhaps sympathetic.
I tell her half the
truth,
not the truth about my
wandering back along
that trek we took in April,
the one she claims
I ruined the memory
of,
stabbing the back of my hand
with a fork or banging my head
against a brick wall, t
he diner, the print shop,
the new high school
where the old stadium stood,
like ways of the
Cross,
me almost genuflecting
at each station,
as each brought out
that moment
when all seemed possible
I trying to find that again,
stumbled and fell
and could not rise again,
no good Samaritan to
carry my cross
even briefly, the hill top always
looming ahead,
falling and rising again and again
always with the same inevitable conclusion.
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