Think about this, old
shoe, pinned to the floor by my sole
, where would you be
if I walked on my hands (
and where, I

ask, would you be if I
traded you in
for a bright black camero
). you sat

in the window of my
station wagon, pretending not to turn
pink in bold stripes.
you held

mud, you held mold
, you held my feet although I danced
, drunk, the music
spilling over rubber legs
, faithfully

laced tight until
broken, then spliced end to
end with a knot
, now laces pull up

short
, plunging my
foot into you, my fancy pink
pig flying through the expanding hole.

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