Sundays

They’re all there— the slippers, the walking boots, the modest brogues,
two pairs of well-worn runners, the black soft-soled slip-ons,
the suede sandals and the high heels, and then the three pairs of Uggs,
in gold, concrete, and sand, lined, unlined, and trimmed with fur— all listening
to the easy laughter wafting from the kitchen with the smell of cooked ham
and parsley sauce, with the clatter of plates pushed too close together,
the news of cars and jobs, of family plans and future friends all floating
into the hall together, where all those shoes lie piled and pushed together
by the door. And I am standing on the doorstep. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

(February 2021)