Because the Shoes

were fortunate,
they’ve a tale to tell
of a journey that began
when they were bought
at the Goodwill store by Joe,
who wore them with plaid socks
and admired their shine. Then
he got a blister.
At first inclined to blame
the shoes, he threw them
in the trash. On further
contemplation, and on examining
his socks, he realized
that the socks were to blame:
a hole, quite pronounced.
So, being a kindly man,
he retrieved the shoes
and brushed them off,
gruffly apologized, and set them
by the curb, telling
them to go where they willed:
they were now free.
The shoes left
after it was dark,
figuring
that they would cause comment
were they to be seen
striding along in daylight.
The shoes made no sound,
for without human feet bearing down,
carrying the heavily swinging
human weight, they could move
lightly, even impetuously.
This was more than they’d ever heard
among shelved shoe-murmurs,
from tales of shoe tradition,
more than they could have hoped.
They danced for themselves alone,
two glinting vibratos in the night
as they came around the corner
down our street, and past our gate.
That’s how we saw them,
and heard
the lack of sound;
that’s why we listened: