Roadside Shoes
Discarded shoes are mysterious things.
More so than a deer, an old tire, or a deep-forest yeti.
They come out of nowhere.
One day they're here; the next day they're not.
Some stay for just a day or two.
Some hang around for months.
Like a wayward uncle leeching
a warm bed and a cold brew.
Who owned them?
Why do they clog the roadside?
Some look like newborns- others like death.
Were they victims of a prank or just lost evidence?
I once saw two red sneakers on the shoulder of a road.
Just inches apart, looking shiny and new.
Like Dorothy's ruby-studded shoes.
They must have tapped their heels together.
click-click-click.
Because by the next morning they vanished.
There's no place like home. I suppose.
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