he sits. he listens.
his is and isnt.
his being long ago lost in a storm
heading west on I-80, a young boy
with seven days stubble only seen
up close in the sunlight.
half breath; tight chest; telephone poles
disappear and forshorten into the blues of atmospheric
perspective.
one foot in front of the other.
this foot that foot, his feet hurt.
beneath hunched shoulders
and tired eyes and feet
there are puddles
reflecting an emaciated
frame, a judging reminder
of the morning rainfall.
he walks and sometimes jogs
through alleys and doors,
locked safely behind transparent
walls.
at what point will he give up
too close to stop; undernourished
and scarred by the son.
if i put these tired feet back into the worn souls
of these three dollar shoes
can we stop talking and meet halfway?
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