Shoes

(This is not about Donald Trump, Lindsay Lohan, The Excomony, Barak Obama, or Paris Hilton.)


I stuffed them with newspapers

the local edition and the New York
Times, and when that wouldn't do I tried
the Daily Mirror, having heard it made
the optimum fodder for situations such as these.

His name was flashing in the headlines
incredible feats of daring do, moving
mountains with the power of his voice.
He spoke softly and enemies dropped
their weapons, loudly and they felt ashamed.

Guiding the tribes with a wave of his hand,
factual lies in pliant ears, give them just
a little truth and it can't hurt them; they
threw flowers, kissed his size 18 feet,
lips blackened but unbelievably satisfied.

His legend grew with every news bite, hyperbole
run rampant on the printed page, words falling
over themselves in their search for superlatives;
people bowing and scraping as a means of closeness.

When I could not read one more word of it, I packed
paper down deep in the toes, finding it still strangely
uncomfortable; toes slapping with each careful step,
my gait stilted like a brain damaged clown.

It will be very hard to fill these shoes.


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