Shoes

I walk briskly down 
the hospital hallway 
as my feelings dance between 
privilege and torture.
My quick steps are not because
I need to be somewhere
but because I need to hear
the soothing cadence of my steps.
I push my foot firm on the floor
so I can bounce at little,
shoes springing off the tile floor
covered in a film of residue 
from whatever cleaner was
used  to sterilize it.
I look down as if  apologizing
 for taking up space where 
there is so much suffering,
and mark my steps with each 
large faded blue tile I step on—
like it is a board game 
I'm playing with my body.
My cushioned shoes sound like 
sticky tack being peeled off a wall.
I still have a long stretch 
of hallway to transition
from the room with 
the man who thought 
he would stop breathing—
who begged me to pray with him.
The memory of grabbing his hand
and meeting his anxious 
eyes with my own 
was still with me. 
I breathe out and say, 
"Oh Lord have mercy,"
and in less than a minute 
I'm at another door. 
I knock and my shoes
cross the threshold.