The blue shoe on the side of the road
had me wondering who it belonged to.
Yes, shoes are made for journeying,
poised for leaping not yet taken.
They shine with this potential
right off the factory line.
Yet, this orphan
once so stiff when young,
once a tender, warming
friend with each footfall
who got him through every season,
every pacing bit of worries,
was flung aside
no restitch present.
No one leaves behind a shoe
not finished with wandering
unless too loose
it falls off easily,
until the foot tiring of the shoe
seeing a light it can only imagine,
of only knowing its darkness
of foot sweats and foot smells,
each step a jolt
and shattering underfoot,
the rising and falling
of the shoe so far ahead
that the foot becomes a ghost limb
in the wings of dust lifting around it
until the errant shoe is left behind
in all the backward movement.