My mother points out how my shoes are always riding: sitting
Empty one upon another at the disembarkation of my footing.
She says it’s an omen, a sign of a trip to come – to be bound
Far from home. As I look back at them on uneasy ground,
My shoes speak louder than whispers far past midnight
Of an itch to travel that breaks skin bleeding bright,
Painting a pathway leading away from the grind,
My bags packed in the readiness of my mind.
I hear the ocean waves recede from sands,
The honking of old cars in foreign lands,
I feel time and place slightly askew
Speaking in smiles under the blue.
An unintended nudge to reality,
This occurrence is a reverie.
At times, now and then,
It happens once again
Like a link broken
Copyright © 2013 Shainbird. All rights reserved.