The Shoes

It must have happened in the night. In the backyard, a pair of men’s shoes. They loll now, mouths agape and concussed. Crows are pecking at the shoelaces. Rain-fish splash into the uppers bobble and plash inside leather throats. The shoes have gained weight since dawn, They’re water-logged by the drenching. They cannot now be carried off by small wet dogs, or ground hogs. Were they abandoned, or is this a more sinister augury? I imagine two pale feet, awaiting to be discovered in another part of town. I confess these fears to the officer; he assures me these feelings are quite normal.