I wore my boots. Except that isn't really true. The truth is, they're Flapjack's boots. They always have been.

Anyway, tonight I had my appointment with the moon. I walked. I shouldn't have. My knee is all slippery on the inside. But I did it anyway.

sadness is a sickness relieved upon the road
and memory the witness of him who bears the load

Like much of my poetry, that came in a dream. A dream from far away that spoke in a soft voice.

Too soft. I was never sure if the word was relieved or relived. It makes a bit of a difference, I think.

So I walked, with my knee loose and clicking, and Flapjack's boots slapping across the ground. I've always described it as "clop tap", but really it's "scuff clop tap clop tap scuff".

Old friends could tell when I was near by my footfalls. The idea almost brings me to tears.

So, I walked. Not for long and not for long enough. I used to walk at night... leave at 1:00 a.m. and come home at dawn, blistered and pale. Gravel in my pockets and wind in my hair.

Walking is balm for the wounded soul, but I've only ever met one other person who knew that, and he's pretty far away right now.

He would walk with me on those nights, and everything was quite fine.

Maybe not so much tonight. There is a pounding rhythm in the feet and blood and mind that you don't hit until the fifth or sixth mile out. That's when the poetry springs full blown into your heart and the pain swells up and bursts like a blister on your heel.

I walked, but not far enough.










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