Shoeless

 

While out for drive

with my special lady,

she noticed something

strange.  Or curious,

or just out of place.

 

A young man,

riding a foot powered

scooter, in only his

sock-feet, shortly

after an afternoon

rain had dampened the

streets and sidewalks.

 

“No shoes,” she said

as she pointed at him from

the front passenger seat.

 

Indeed there he was,

stopped at the crosswalk,

waiting for the WALK sign to

give him permission to continue

on his shoeless way.

 

He was dressed casually for

a Summer day, tee-shirt and

shorts, nothing too unusual,

except for the fact that he was

missing his shoes.

 

“That’s so odd,” I said.

Genuinely perplexed by this

young man’s predicament.

I couldn’t understand by

what means this young man

became shoeless on a scooter,

in the rain.

 

What fate befell this young shoeless

scooter rider? Was he robbed? Was he

making a quick getaway and

left his shoes behind before his

lover’s significant other came home to

discover their tryst?

 

It got me thinking about our

backstories, the stories that

make-up our identities and generally

define who we are and who we are

to each other.

 

So many questions, no answers.

Another player on the stage,

another mystery playing out on the streets

of Chicago for us to ponder,

with only one person that knows the answer.  

But so many stories inside. 

 

 

 

Summer Carnival

 

The Carnival of

outrage, with its

many spinning and

looping rides, may be

missing a few screws,

but you are tall enough to ride.

 

I bought a ticket for the

boardwalk, and heard the

side show talkers shouting and

shimmying for a dime,

as they picked our pockets

as our backs were turned.

 

The juggling jugglers,

juggling other jugglers,

who in turn juggled still

more jugglers up into the air,

a tower of twirling hands and bowling pins

spinning in infinite loops.

 

Seeing the two-faced boy,

floating in the brine,

under-lit with intensely bright

light, showcased oddities,

graced with glamor and

 a certain je ne sais quoi, glee.

 

The line for tent for the Ladies of France,

who dance in their underpants,

is 40 men deep, shoulder to shoulder,

it’s quiet, but simmering

with too many hands in pants pockets,

and too many hats pulled low.

 

The shows and the extravagance,

the bright lights and flickering neon,

hiding the piles of elephant dung,

flung over the wrong side of

the railroad tracks,

where I left my shoes.

 

It is best to not,

go around kicking rocks

in your socks,

or cartwheel over eggshells,

on the edge of a

Carnival of outrage.