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
Tags: Diaries, Doors, Dreams, Journals, Poems, Poetry, Shoes, Socks
William Michaelian 