Footloose.

Footloose.

 

 

Just another pair

of shoes in the road,
you see them so often

as you drive the highways,
one laying this way

and the other that.

So many times they

impedee one's path.

She bent to pick up

the last things he wore,
before he was separated

from them and her,
ejected from a

convertible vehicle
at a very high rate of speed,
in an unavoidable accident,
where he failed to buckle up,
and paid the awful consequences,
in a painful, jarring deadly flight.

His shoes tumbled

long before he did
to the unforgiving pavement.
There was little other

evidence of his exit,
some broken glass, in the grass,
and his shoes left in the road.

His body was now cooling

in the hospital morgue,
tattooed in bruises, head to toe,
from gravel, a sign post, and a tree,
all things he was flung

into in his last moments.

She hugged the shoes

briefly, looking around
to make sure no

cars were coming,
and really not caring

too much at that moment,
if she did step in front of one.

Then she tucked his

shoes under her arm,
They were his favorite pair,
old beat up sneakers,
now a bit more worse for wear.

She took them home

and put them on
his side of the bed,

to make it look
as if he had just

left them there,
to help her each night

when she crawled
into the massive spread

of empty sheets
she'd have to face

for oh, so long
a while to come.

He was put

shoeless in a box,
they seldom waste

shoes on a burial,
and resides in a small

plot of ground,
safe from any more road hazards,
like the shoes

he left behind.

©-MFB III