He looks at his foot and mistakes it for the horizon;
a horizontal line where the sun disappears.
I ask him to reconsider, but he resists,
and I resist – the horizon must be better, I say,
only to fall deep in despair.
I can, at least, reach my foot,
feel the jagged edges of my nails,
inhale the stench of journeys past.
What good is the horizon if your feet can’t take you there, I say.
What good is the journey if you can’t make sense of it?
I say, give me calluses on my feet,
and my worn out shoes.
Give me the stench of the journey,
and the certainty of motion.
What good is the horizon if your feet won’t take you there?