the shoe

Fifty years and I’ve learned nothing. Don’t ask me how the world works. Don’t tell me if the shoe fits. Each day an erasure. Each night a dearth of dreams. The calendar and the contacts. These letters wearing thin.

Maybe I picked up a trick or two. I learned to be my own ghost, even the chains. A few sparse lines, spent fantasies and gripped grievances. A mirror for shaving and seeing what’s gone. The rudiments of love and distraction.

The words entered for the record. These sentences meant to be served, not read. My lips dry, my stories dead. A few more symbols hung off the abstraction. The actions go on, anguished over, but undelivered.