old woman in a shoe

i learned nursery rhymes late. 
drug around my father on a leash. 
the sky has toe nails. the sky has teeth.
on the mountain everyone was my mother.
the neighbor without teeth & the neighbor
with the horrible dog & the neighbor with
stained glass eyes. beyond the trees lived
a woman inside a shoe. she did not have children
like in the story. instead, she had bells.
i would ask her, "am i ever going to be
a real baby?" she fed me whatever i asked for.
bagels & butter. bruised peaches sugary 
from their squashing. she always said, "it is too late."
i knew that. i have several gray hairs. i have
hair on my back. still i remember begging
my adults to swaddle me & pretend i am
a baby their found in the middle of
the jungle. the old shoe woman does this for me
only once. it is a day when i am so sick
the sounds of rain turn me to dust. she says,
"i know you need this." i don't remember how
i got home but i assume she carried me.
no one else in town ever believed me about her.
i still sometimes leave a shoe outside
in the hopes she will inhabit it & start
tending me again. the truth is though she is elsewhere
making a baby of someone who needs it
more than me. often i wonder if i am becoming
an old woman who lives in a shoe. i take pride
in holding who i can. then, pulling the laces tight
& slipping into a home that is dark & musty. 
soft scent of leather. children quiet in the dark.
their eyes, like coins in a well.