CAMELOT FANTASIES

Friday


by Ann Drysdale



 The print of a bare foot, the second toe
 A little longer than the one which is
 Traditionally designated "great".
 Praxiteles would have admired it.

 You must have left in haste; your last wet step
 Before boarding your suit and setting sail,
 Outlined in talcum on the bathroom floor
 Mocks your habitual fastidiousness.

 There is no tide here to obliterate
 Your oversight. Unless I wipe or sweep
 Or suck it up, it will not go away.
 The thought delights me. I will keep the footprint.

 Too slight, too simply human to be called
 Token or promise; I am keeping it
 Because it is a precious evidence
 That on this island I am not alone.