Blue Shoe

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

soles exposed,

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.