Shoes

Shoes By Sy Roth They could have been left in a heap Soaring to the rafters After the trains left the station And after they had trod the blocks to their fate. They could have been tossed with disdain To rest among the childrens’ slippers And the madams’ low heels Or the men’s size ten, sturdy cordovan leathers. Instead, they rested bedside Uneven tread, nose worn thin from shuffling Back clawed, indented through forced entry Laces a calamity weeping tied tightly. Instead, they messaged a life lived Breathing sighs of relief at not having to resting upon a pile Of Lost soles, morsing dit-dotting measures of despair In their having trod away from the chimneys of conflagration. And they watched them in morose silence Beside the empty bed, for they would walk no more Shod survivors of their time In well-worn ennui for having been here.