His small shoes
sprawled in the corner.

She thinks of his toes
squirming then, soft
and pink and round.
The taut lines against her fingers
circulation fading to white.

The soles squeaked
across the linoleum
like skin, scuff marks
question marks – what next?
His little scuffs inside her big scuffs
-where were you?

The tongues droop
kissing the fabric
that touched the bottoms of his feet.

Such small, small shoes.
Expected to have holes
or at least be frayed.

She brushes aside the laces
limp, numb arms
peers in.

They should at least be worn…
stringy bits clinging
to the fabric, by the big toe.
Yet,
only the preserved smell of rubber
the outsides white as clean linen.

No one expects
a little boy
to have such
clean linens.

They are light up shoes…
She almost forgot, little halos
reaching up to his ankles.

She remembers this
as they blink – red, white.
Straining pale, ribbed marks
against the black trash bag.

She carries them
to the corner, not noticing
her feet – soaked, wrinkling,
nailbeds growing pale.

His shoes
like tiny flashbulb faces,
they are still winking from the back of the dump truck
the next morning.

Britt Moorman    

Copyright 2010