I hear the sharp clack of heels upon the floor
and I think of my mother on Sunday morning.
It is not a pleasant sound.
It is the sound of church
and an endless four o’clock when the sun glares low and unrelenting,
insisting that we learn to understand the length of a day,
a day that begins with the clacking of heels and ends in silence
if not for the ringing in the ears and the hum of electric appliances.
I hear the sharp clack of heels upon the floor.
I think of my mother.
I am startled the sound is mine.
My heels banging-
banging out the dirge of an eternal Sunday
like an inmate, banging a tin cup upon bars of his prison cell.
There is no sunlight.
He does not know when the day ends and begins
It is one day.
It has all been but a day.
It will all be but a day.