Swayed Shoes

Every day

I pick up my


–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,


and dress,


and decide


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


point of view


I step out


–noticing just how many of us

are wearing the same


About Charron's Chatter

I bring to you an arrow, whole, Use it, or break it, But if you choose to take it --Know-- With it also, I will go. © Karen Robiscoe @1992

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