Baby Shoes
So cold…black cold…old cold,
wind burns through the cars broken window
as it speeds down the black ribbon into the onyx night.
Tears of cold seep
from the corners of my auburn lashes.
The whoop, whoop, of passing phone poles
and the engines whirrrrr
force my lids to close lazily.
Street lights lemon blast them open
once too often and I whimper;
squirming to get at my thumb,
mittens leave me unrewarded.
So cold..my cheeks burn cold.
So cold…my nose runs clear.
Mother turns backward toward me,
purple in the dash lights flame wiping my face
with her frozen fingers;
plumping the blankets and tying my wool cap.
Father sings Sinatra songs
and clucks me under the chin at a stop.
“Baby needs a new pair of shoes!” He says.
Gambling that the flight from farmland
to M’Yorka would get all of us just that!
The prodigal son returns home.
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