Monday, June 20, 2016
"At the Swinging Door of the Pub" by Tricia Knoll, Frequent Contributor
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.