Monday, June 20, 2016

"At the Swinging Door of the Pub" by Tricia Knoll, Frequent Contributor



At the Swinging Door of the Pub
Tricia Knoll

I looked up expecting moon
and there was a swaying power line.

I looked to the power line for a squirrel
and saw two black high-tops dangling by shoestrings.

I looked at the shoes and hoped it was an omen
that you would walk back in.

The boy at the bus shelter said dangling shoes
was an our-turf gang symbol.

Another said drug sales nearby.
I saw only two wet sneakers.

My life, lonely barefoot-bereft
in front of a bar.

Poet's Notes: This poem is mostly fiction, although I always notice those pairs of shoes caught on shoestrings on wires that cross major arterials in Portland. Then I thought of how many of us wait for certain shoes on certain feet to come through the door.

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