5880. MY SINGLE SHOES

MY SINGLE SHOES

My single shoes go nowhere, take me to nothing;

I have a hat and story to talk about, but I can never

move. There is only a sad solace to the making of

these never-ending tales. I was there before breakfast

and left before noon. That's all I can say.

-

The scribe who came from Neverland was sure to be 

writing in heavy, green boots. Kafka called it, once,

referencing 'book' as a concept  -  'an ice-ax to break

the sea frozen within us.' I sort of got that immediately.

Once I absorbed that essential tale, I knew where I was

heading  -  grant and pail, line and paper.

-

So, here I sit, my single shoes set in a concrete of words.

I am tethered and tortured to a desk with no wheels.

Never leaving, going nowhere, I suppose I'll just

sit here forever and work.