The Toes (D.H.L. #243)

One weekend
every couple of months
I drive
four hours
north
and
then
east
to
D.C..

This morning
I find myself
again
on this couch
(if it were two inches longer, I would sleep like the dead)
waking up
before Sam and his
tolerant wife.

I dart across the hall
and take my morning pee,
stop to make a couple faces
in the mirror,
and then walk
quiet like a ninja
through their living room.

The sun is beaming
through the sliding glass doors
of the balcony
and I would love
nothing more
(except with a cup of coffee)
to sit in the sun
and ask God
to forgive me
one more time.

And then I feel
and hear
in my head
A CAR WRECK
coming from my
toe.

I let out
an Al Pacino
Godfather III
silent scream
and instantly access the damage.

Blood and skin-
a
flap
holding
on
for
dear
life.

I walk on my
heels
to the bathroom
and wrap the toe
in toilet paper.

I pause in front of the mirror
to make a new face.
I do the silent scream.

For the rest of the day
I have a hyper-sensitive
awareness of my toes,
as if
I
just watched a film
directed by
Alfred Hitchcock
called,

"The Toes."