I Walk a Path
by Megan Krupa
I Walk a Path
in my living room,
a habit I started in Winter.
Marked with a tiny, blue doll shoe, a pacifier,
a stray sock, and a book about birds.
Somehow nature seems close here.
The blackened lines of oak panels,
even the floor was alive once.
Maybe all this time
they were wrong
about looking down.
There is power in repetition,
the way your feet know the rhythm,
perfectly in sync, never outstepping the other.
When I walk, I want
the future
to fit inside a box and present itself to me.
Unwrapped in all its glory,
no need for adoration.
I want a brown-boxed future,
the kind I can take with me
under my arm and begin to make plans.
I want to know what day to mark as the finale,
how to pack, and what to leave behind.
