When I walk I stare at my toes

and think of the language of

shoes. I purchase them based 

on vocabulary and definitely,

attitude. 

I used to walk, eyes up, shoulders

back like I was trained, Dad’s hand 

wrapped around my neck, gripping, directing to the desired task, or 

person for whom I’d smile like a 

puppet with no words but a sort of 

weak ventriloquism. 

Dad wore black loafers with tassels,

or occasionally wingtips. He never

looked at them but then, he could

always speak for himself.