the long walk

It is early evening and I still haven't left
the house today. From my bed,
everything looms: impossible dresser and
its flank-like shutters, the bellow
of the old furnace, a letter
I have not responded to. My mother told me
about a man who walked 2,000 miles until
his shoes wore through and each step
ate a little more of his feet. She doesn't know
why and our long distance call
ends.

Outside the window, the trees in winter
are skeletal. The pigeons prefer
the sizzle of power lines for a perch,
and I count them, my electric choir.

I put on my coat, wrap my scarf
like a noose, and take
the walk no one knows about.