Wednesday, August 26, 2009


When I put on your shoes
I feel crabby, not sad.
My feet go numb in your shoes.
I turn into crabby man in your shoes,
do the dishes & poke around my books.
I sit on the bench and stir cinnamon into
play jam. The real jam has plums in the fridge.
Bread from the bible with peanut butter on it.
Eat fake flax crisps and mushy corn
on a pillow of horse hair. Where are your shoes?
Frosted tips for show. Run into thought
like a trip wire and the concussion after. Wednesday.


Blogger Maggie May said...

this poem is absolutely loveable.

6:12 AM  

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