DIRTY FEET
By Dennis J. Humphrey
 

"My feet," she says.  "Just look at them."  I do.

They're planted on the floor.  She's sitting there,

bent double, looking down at them.  Her face

is hidden by the long dark strands of hair

which fall down sleepily, the way they do

in that drawing I made for her..."Filthy,"

she says.  Then I know, Rock am Ring.  The huge

outdoor concert up in Norburg.  All day

she walked and ran and danced (oh yes, she must

have danced) her sandaled feet through dust and dirt

and had beer spilled on them..."I scrubbed and scrubbed.

They won't come clean," she says in that small voice

she uses when she is pretending to

be helpless as a child.  I think that they

look clean enough.  As she looks up, her hair

falls back on either side to show her face.

Her eyes, as plaintive as a child's who wants

some hurt made better, look at me and wait

for my reply.  In some other reality

I do not say a word and yet she knows.

In this world I can only say "I know,

but don't you love the way they got that way?"

And she can only hide her face again.
 

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DENNIS J. HUMPHREY is an assistant professor of English at Arkansas State University - Beebe.