2010 :: Issue 7/Fall :: Solitude
The shoes of the old ones:
I see them lined up
Beneath the pews at church,
Like sentences in an archaic tongue
Punctuated by the tips of canes.
Mornings so fragile
The one who shaves
Shaves by the light of the snow
On his neighbor’s roof.
There to which the red-faced preacher points,
And the crepe-soled docent.
King of the jack-o’-lanterns!
I may even have cried aloud.