Friday, January 22, 2010

I Don't Like Empty Shoes

Punctuated wingtips
perched on shag carpet.
Nothing feathery about them.
Heavier than granite they are
like the stone on my heart.
Worn as soft as kid.
 We could not let him go
in just his socks.

 Another pair cradled
in white tissue.
White leather as supple
as a petal with
blossoms painted
on the soles.
More than once
I forced them on her toes,
the little buds they were,
while she giggled.

In Advent,
German children lay out
empty shoes.
The younger ones
peer over window sills
with fabled hopes of
sparkling sugared satisfaction.
But the elder children
hunger for the contrast
of orange and
of chocolate.

 Copyright 2010

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