by John Middlebrook

I stand and soak in shower steam
staring at tiles the blue of midday gone.
Through ripples of water I reflect
on my myriad walks, collages of clouds
and birds drawing me into the woods.

As my boots marched today
over bramble at the bottom of the forest,
my mind stepped up its own ladder.

And though it was good, I don’t prefer it
to walks that stumped me with wrong turns,
leaving me lost; or dared me with stone walls;
or pulled up short, stopped by sores.

At the end of each day,
my walking coat lies still upon my bed.
I turn it over, like you might a dead man,
empty the pockets and sweep the floor.

John Middlebrook lives in Bucks County, Pennsylvania, where he manages a consulting firm focused on non-profit organizations. He has been writing poetry since he was a graduate student at the University of Chicago, where he also served on the poetry staff of Chicago Review. His work has appeared in Writers’ Bloc, Foundling Review, and Yes, Poetry.