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,

using a really old toothbrush

to scrub

at the pain stains that leaked

into its folds

no matter how hard I cap those pointed blues the night before

. . .

pinning the holes of loss

with old-fashioned safety pins

\\\

and shaking out the whole,

I take stock.

I concentrate on the brighter colors

that defy repeated wear

–and complement both dawn & dusk–

and rise,

(then)

and dress,

(now)

and decide

(also)

that the small spots 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 hem

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.