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.
Not Quiet Any More 