GAIL PECK

Put Wore-out Shoes in this Can

says the hand-written sign at the dump.
In they go: running shoes with purple night-glow,
Easy Spirits, Espadrilles, white bucks
that nestled at the back of the closet,
first-step baby shoes, Grandma Jones
black sturdy clodhoppers that took her
to the garden. Matching canvass of what
the dog ate. Shoes of the never coming back.
Virgil’s “still good,” snuck out by his wife.
The pinch me, hurt me pointed toes
that went with every color. Paint splattered.
Holey. Worn down heels. Gold pumps
dancing through the night. Oh, there’s a sock. . .
Undone-on-the-bed ankle straps.
Lime green sandals and Florida pink.
Patent leather—only time Roger
wore a tux. Cleats with dried mud.
The mate of the shoe that fell from the car.

And now they’ve emptied it,
and some damn fool poet,
apparently searching for new material,
is taking notes.