Friday, September 13, 2013

Terror of the Oxblood Oxford Shoe

Laces woven but untied, dusty cords
like worms in dried silt.

The slow turn of a worn shoe.

What is this world of Dick, Jane, Sally said?

The sand packed dune fills the shoe
and spills in slow linear flow
over the back stitched line
of a well worn heel.

I tremor in fever of memory past.

My mother in mercy said,

"Shoo it away."

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