Swayed Shoes

Every day

I pick up my

attitude

–a discarded crumple on the floor—

duct taping away the dust bunnies of depression

from its crinkles,

scrubbing w a really old toothbrush

at the pain stains that leak

into its folds no

matter how hard I cap these pointed blues each morning

. . .

pinning the holes of loss

w old-fashioned safety pins

. . .

and shaking out the whole,

I concentrate on the brighter colors

–that defy repeated wear

and complement both sun & rose–

I rise,

(then)

and dress,

(now)

and decide

(also)

that the small details at worn cuff

are admirable,

–and lend to the pattern

at the heart of my outlook–

that there are yet beautiful buttons

there, too,

and the fringe at fray

is almost exotic

–tres Par’ee–

and squaring shoulders beneath unpadded

point of view

I step out

–noticing just how many of us

are wearing the same

outfit.