PawPaw, 11/21
What to make of a pair of discarded shoes?
Dead long before I arrived on the scene.
Unearthed in the long-needed demo of an old building.
Surfacing among feed sacks, ancient beer cans, and unknown pieces of metal.
Once they were nice, wing tips, black, shiny.
The shoes you wore to the office and had shined by a black man on a street corner.
Or to a dance with your honey. Leather soles to glide across the dance floor.
Not much use for them in this place, what with the cows and hogs, and the need for something more sturdy than dancing shoes.
I ask these shoes the same question I ask of most everyone I meet - How did you get here?
Where had you been before this place, only to end up buried in a corn crib, a home for rats, snakes and other critters.
Fancy places, I’d bet.
High rises with nice furniture. Homes with real carpet on the floor. Restaurants where their gloss reflects neon lights.
So, here’s the thing, I say.
Your past is important, if only in my imagination.
And therefore worth preserving.
So, I can nail you to the barn along with the tobacco baskets and plow points. A memory of what exactly?
Or, like your previous owner, I can relegate you to the trash heap.
This time to the county landfill, the high end of dumps.
There, you’re liable to meet more of your kind, other shoes, boots perhaps, musty slippers.
And ultimately, you might feel more at home.