• andrew jeter


When I was younger,

if my socked-foot had started

to slip

while I was peeing into the toilet,

I have no doubt

that I would have reined

in that errant foot,

pulled it back from its

gradual misalignment.

But let’s face it,

I’m older now.

I could watch it go.

Observe it slip

inexorably farther away

while I void my bladder

in the fleeting privacy

of a bathroom

with a door I am

still allowed to lock.

I could watch it slide away

while my eyes dart back and forth

between my errant foot

and the stream that

is still a river

and not yet a brook.

I have time now for that.

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