My shoes don’t match

I said to myself

Observing one black and one brown.

One pointy toe

The other a moc

I noticed as I sat down.

(I remembered a time
In Pershing Square
An orator holding his own
“The end is nigh
Beware my friends
Repent before heading Home”)

(Is he right) I wondered

My shoes don’t match

I’d found them a moment ago

I repented not

(They were warm and snug
I left them on my toes.)

My shoes don’t match

I said to myself

Observing one black and one brown.

One pointed toe

The other a moc

Each slipped over

A woolen sock

The time was passing

Tickety tock

A smile replacing a frown;

I have another pair just like these

And they are my very own.






It is impossible as head-nodders for us to learn the true subject of our gossip.

But chatter we do,
nod we do,
smile and frown and clap we do…

like starlings at early dawn,
we protest, quarrel and yawn.

We flap, we rustle, we cling together and rise afeather…
seeking the leader
whose silent tether

greets the grey of gloomy,
now gone.

As sundown teases, murmeration ceases;  with one last rustle, we rhyme with the rhythm of billowing blather,
our restlessness astir
as darkness overcomes.

Tomorrow we rise a-more
and like dawnings come before…

we’ll dismount from our roosts, our heads awaggle,we’ll gossip and gaggle; we’ll harp – we will haggle

And as the bloated carcasses of our forgotten comrades add nourishment to the earth, one or two will ask “do you remember whats-his-name?”.

“Oh yes” we reply, “he had so many strange, new ideas”.

And with heads abob we bestow our final, limited approval in measured doses…

and our world nods approval to the brief observance of continuity,
forgetting yet
Love Story.