In the morning we find our shoes
heel to toe,
toe sometimes perpendicular to the arch of the other shoe,
or scattered in uncharted directions:
one on its sole, the other rocked to its side
running away from each other or embraced,
either way symbols of the day’s journeys
dirtied with a wad of gum or a clump of mud
This is as close to reality as the human race
will ever know it, the corns, the bunions, scars
Barefoot then, shoes tossed in serendipitous rooms
late at night we examine big toes
as they curl towards us,
gnarly, crooked with many stories to tell,
toe nails smooth and blank
as ancestral ghosts,
grinning yea, grimacing nay
To pacify their wrath and our fears,
we read the bottoms of our feet like tea leaves,
never remembering how far they’ve traveled,
why or where they’ve been,
at day’s end caring only
how we see them the morning after,
how our shoes fall