Making Breakfast with Dolly

​

Tonight I read

how Dolly Parton

always wears

high heel shoes

in her kitchen.

“Don’t you?”

she asks.

I don’t.

I wear old brown

wool slippers.

With orthotics.

I try to imagine myself

strutting into the kitchen

before the kids

go to school,

making smoothies

and scrambled eggs

in my yoga pants,

my long gray sweatshirt,

and my four-inch

Lucite stilettos.

Click, click, click

go the heels

as I teeter toward

the tea cups.

Click, click, click

as I parade

with paper towels

to the place

where the cat

has retched.

Oh Dolly,

as I slip into

these high-heeled thoughts

I thank you

for dressing up the day.

These glammed up ideas

two-step and sashay

through the morning chores,

while meanwhile

my slippered self

marvels at the fun,

but shrugs—

she’s just so darn grateful

for her arch support,

for the rubber soles

that ground her

as she sweeps

up the crumbs,

as she wipes

the counters clean.

Grateful that when

the high-heeled thoughts

start to sing,

and damn, can they sing,

they invite her

to sing along.