up by this and that, I walked to the Y,
and Flex Room A was open, so I left
my shoes outside the door and got down and
practiced my flatfooting in front of the
big mirror—with the noonday sun shining
in from the south and a tune in my head:
If ‘t had not a been for Cotton-Eyed Joe
I’d a been married twenty years ago,
imagining the clacking my shoes would
make if I had any on, hard-leather-
soled shoes, unmatching so each would sound its
own tap. Tried to smile as I scooted past
the glass. Stubbed my toe! Called for the doctor!
Cotton-Eyed Joe is
an old minstrel song—
can’t possibly
perform my flatfooting piece
in the Bird’s Nest open mic.
