Once white now beige
thrift shop tile
caught the eye
the way it matched
the dark brown wood
patterned shelving units,
hung and housing the
thrown away. Priced
to go home again.
Priced for sure sale.

Waiting there
like a soon to be
broken ankle
I saw them,
a quick fix
old white on black
wing tips.
They had been given
character by time
by the time
I'd seen them.

The wrong size was apparent.
A malicious number yelling
mismatched
from inside their old
dry like dust
leather tongues
underside
black worn souls.

So badly I wanted that pair,
quick fix wing tips
I kicked off
flip flops
and put them on
over sockless feet.

Later that day,
Flesh foaming out of
the top like boiling water
out of a pot,
I found myself
walking behind you.

Moses, connoisseur of stylish footwear!
Moses, man I'd come to confide in.
Moses, man who'd shown me the imort
of a strongly colored jacket
and
the right words.


Moses wore his brown slacks,
blue button down shirt .
Moses alowed that it blew open in the breeze
complete with faded red spots
telling all that
Moses had been in another
bottle fight.

Moses brown shoes proper
hit the walk in front of me
like blood of red reminds
that blood was once blue.

And I walked,
like a fastidious shadow,
unable to sound out.
A contrast color,
that tasty orange looking
brown when held up
to the sun.

I stomped on twigs
hoping to catch your ear.
Only to find that my
too small shoes
muffled the sound.

I even tried to run,
you know, to
make up ground.
Alas,
such was the case that
my feet hurt so much
I only fell down.

Lying there, face ground,
I thought:
"crawl"
or, take off
that which held me down.

Moses, I tried to figure out
knots like infant snakes
that color brown lace
I couldn't untie
didn't even match
what it held on flesh
of bleeding feet.

On the ground
in a small patch
under those shoes,
the dark gray
asphalt worn away
to an old cobblestone road.