"I sorted Mommy's shoes," our first-grader grins
after making our bedroom a minefield of footwear:
ranks of shoes pulled from our closet.
We divide discards from keepers.
I pile treasures:
spikes, boots, wedges, slings, mules.
Patent leather winks up at me like fish
in the bottom of a tropic lagoon.
My wife heaps up flats, sneakers, slippers.
Rubber soles bend. Languid laces entwine.
Canvas, suede, pinks, pastels collect,
a windfall of New England leaves.
My wife directs a stern finger
at my gleaming, angular mass:
"Your pile's junk."
First, I protest, then, sighing, surrender,
watch her toss the shimmering shoes,
a catch of exotic fish
(c) Copyright 2001. The Christian Science Publishing Society