“Good morning,” I said to a shoe one day
upon a bus stop. “Who left you here?” I
asked. The size-four shoe did not reply back.
Without stirring, sunlight began to stack,
as busy morning people went their way
without even glancing, or saying goodbye.

Abandoned or forgotten, this shoe may
have waited for the owner to come by.
The silver Nikey shoe laid on the crack,
as its black laces trailed by. The shoe lacked
its other half. Hoping the owner may
come by. It sat, crying a tearless cry.

Wishes and dreams perfumed the shoe that stayed,
craving me to declare proud, “This is my
Shoe.” Patiently waiting, it did not lack
faith that it would be found, a damaged plaque.
The shoe sat silent, prolonging its stay.
“Goodbye shoe,” I said, as people passed by.

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