the cobbler's worries

he's making shoes for the future
when none of us have eyes or feet
& we house what's left in 
little boats. main street floods
with hope. the kind of hope
that dismantles everything.
my brother wears his shoes
until he reaches the dirt.
you can fill a shoe with soil
& use it to plant a flower:
pansy, poppy, lilac. 
it won't be spring for a long time
at least another several years.
will someone come fit my 
for a nice pair of dress shoes?
the cobbler makes his own shoes
which is another way of saying 
some of us try to build
our own coffins. i want a headstone
that reads, "he was always afraid of this."
all my shoes are broken
but he is no where to be found.
planning for a greater mystery 
than myself as we all must do
if we are going to find meaning
by tuesday. no nothing is happening
on tuesday that's the point.
i wish it would never rain. i just can't
take that melancholy anymore.
it's too cold. i want to live somewhere
all the shoes are open. little patios.
my bare feet are microcosms of disaster.
even a mountain could be hiding
his own secret pair of shoes.
a mother's heels are to be played with.
a mirror is to be shatter
with a stray clog. why isn't anyone else here?
where did they go, taking all their feet
with them? instead i am alive holding
just this candle & a notebook
of all the shapes of the moon.
i am so scared of what's attached
to my ankles. somewhere the cobbler weeps
laying on his back as he floats
farther & farther towards the sun.
we have no need for him anymore
what with all the bones. 
he was a good man. he just wanted
to help us.  

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