Dear John

In the bookstore bathroom,
I looked down underneath
the stall divider to peek at
the feet of the woman
on the john next to me.
What would I do if you
happened to be in the stall
next door? Would you
recognize my slip-on sandals
and dark berry colored toenails?
Would I remember your
beautiful feet, a feature you've
prized for years? Would we
debate what to do next while
we flushed our respective
toilets and buttoned our
pants? Would we let our
feet lead the way to a
face-to-face encounter
at the sinks? What do you
say after a year and a half?
What do you say to the one
who caused so much pain,
the one you think about
every day, but never speak
to, as you lather your hands
with soap that can never
wash away the memories?

© 2006 Amy E. Hall