Every day for the past two weeks the same, sad sight: the shoe.
The lone shoe next to the sidewalk. The left shoe, one of a lost pair placed gingerly on a stone, waiting to be claimed. As if to say, “Here I am! I’ve been here this whole time, waiting like a good shoe should. Waiting for you.”
It is a very nice shoe, though at this point it has been rained and snowed on, at least twice. Who knows what else? Splendid still, despite everything, yet it is beginning, now, to take on the appearance of being constantly (perhaps permanently) wet.
As in sodden, soaked and sopping. And alone, to boot.
It’s still there, you know. Carried over from last year into this one, into this, the fourth day of the new year.
Poor left shoe.
Perhaps pants would be better.
Pants would be funnier, splayed out against the curb, brandished against the asphalt.
Pants, at least, are never lonesome.