2.5.2015

the crocuses have awoken, a defiant yellow flare against the bricks

and my shoes have grown fonder this year of puddles than I might wish

so much so, that my toes have pruned by the end of the day

yet I am reluctant to cast them off –

who am I to come between lovers in the spring?

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shoes

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It wasn’t me!
It was these shoes!
They dragged me
where I didn’t choose!

As soon as they
were on my feet,
off they went
on down the street.

If they weren’t
so tightly tied
I might have taken
back my stride,

but they stomped my
fingers when I tried
and yanked me up
the tallest slide.

They marched me
to the candy shop
I really could not
make them stop!

They kicked my
sister in the shin
then ran before
she saw me grin.

They raced me
to the jungle gym,
I was a victim
to their whim!

They wandered through
the tallest grass
and made me late
for science class.

It wasn’t me!
It was these shoes!
My feet were hostage –
sore abused!

Take these shoes –
these things are cursed!
But you’ll hafta
catch me first!

© Sarah Whiteley

Sometimes you just have to be silly. Although I don’t recommend shin kicking. Usually.