A Thinning Light
A pair of new shoes in the thrift store,
the old shoes would shuffle away
from them if they could.
A ragged man struggles
carrying a large plasma screen
in outstretched arms.
He is walking it home
but he has no home
still, he is walking it.
There is little light to be had,
no one goes to the park
not even to stare at the sky,
not even to walk a dog,
not even to smoke a cigarette
huddled behind
a damp tree trunk.
A muffled clomp of boots,
a drizzle of slow traffic,
sludge iced over with iron
all this keeps away
unnecessary movement.
A bad day for minstrels,
knights and stray unicorns.
No one is curious
about the thinning daylight,
how it falls listless
upon new shoes.
An old woman,
hands wrapped in fingerless wool,
takes the new shoes home.
She walks them home
in a burlap bag
recycled by blind beetles.
Many humped mounds of shoes,
now rest in an unlit solitude.
An oversized plasma screen
struggles with a ragged man
as they walk past her dark window.
The new shoes do not fit well
with the old heaps -
not yet.
There is no more walking
or loose ends
to fray
by the end of the day.
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