In the never-ending wait
for the other shoe to drop;
the one that also has a
pebble in it, and a nail sticking
up through the sole, and always
blisters your heel, our
anticipation reels.
We know it is coming,
we can see it,
we don’t know where it’ll
land though,
and that is what is keeping
us awake at night.
The shoe of Damocles,
dangling by shoestrings
over our chests,
ready to drop through our
ribs and crush our hearts,
again.
A shoe the size of a
continent, tumbling
end-over-end in the whistling
wind, plummeting like a dive-bombing
Stuka, wailing with alarms and
chilling the blood.
This uncomfortable shoe,
ugly and obscene,
greasy and grotesque,
is coming down,
and we’ll have to decide
if we’re going wear it.
Or chuck it into the
ashbin of history,
and get a new shoe,
on that’s clean, comfortable and
well-tailored to fit any
shoesize.
I like new shoes.
