William Michaelian

Poems, Notes, and Drawings

Socks, Shoes, Whisk Broom

The socks are of brown heirloom cotton, rising to the ankle, finished without dye, part kiss, part sigh. The shoes happened by, looking for a home. They wait in the closet by the door. Sometimes I hear them in the night, arguing with the whisk broom: Stop pacing. Stop waiting. Shh. Shh. When I open the door, they are mum. Each has a life, like the walls, the dark, the floor; like things kept in the mind; like the dream; like the door.

March 8, 2021


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Categories: New Poems & Pieces

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