How your day was

The tumult in the heart
keeps asking questions. 
-Elizabeth Bishop, "Conversation"-

The mirror throws back a child's face, the only tell-tale windows of sadness and years, the tired eyes. What a relief it is to lie down and stretch the legs, to move the toes that for hours and hours had been confined in the narrow, triangular concaves of the three-inch stilettos you knew had been a mistake, not when you knew the extent of wandering that was to come when you slipped into them yesterday. But now, it's the evening after the day of that afternoon and the body lies supine on a soft, familiar bed--because there often is softness in the familiar--even as streams of the last nineteen hours' sundry conversations still intersect in your head and the approaching twilight shows little promise of a peaceful night. In your head, too, the lines of a song weave themselves into the lines of a poem, and you become the "you" in the song, and one of everyone else in the poem. You, walking, and the memory of aimlessness, the aimlessness of your  feet as they took a path that led nowhere that you wanted to believe was somewhere, and that did take you somewhere: you, alone, there, somewhere. And, finally, as the day finds its end: you, here, somewhere, and somewhere else.