The Forgotten Shoe
Barreling down 66 the summer sun melts asphalt
into fog. My red T-top juts through desert sand
on a blind, dark path.
I flick my cigarette and see a Greek goddess
in the dirt. Her tongue fell out and went to Las Vegas.
Or was it Mexico? Her sole traversed many miles,
detailed in the barrenness of its face.
Cotton filling pokes from her sides, soft
as moccasin fur. Her brother left. Sitting
on the shelf at Salvation Army, or a yard sale table
in Wichita, continuing across the Midwest.
In a landfill outside Salt Lake.
When together, there were no boundaries.
Jumping stones and puddles through Dallas city streets.
I punch the brakes, leaving two long black snakes
behind. As the car dies I set fire to a Camel
while Lennon sings, “the world will be as one.”
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