Dirty shoes are often sign
of a getaway adventure or,
telling from his crooked spine,
struggles of another nature.
Filthy beyond repair
they’re allowed to cover his feet.
One cannot help but stare,
at a living sacrifice holding onto its seat.
Hands comforting each other:
Those Grand Canyon-looking cuts
of a skin that could’ve been another’s,
for they don’t share feelings as much.
Eyes half closed in patience,
falling in and out of sleep.
Flashing dreams mix with passing stations
he keeps count as jumping sheep.
One can tell he is far from home,
although his home not far from him.
A future—he owes to his son,
the humble present to redeem.
Let the young sing the songs he couldn’t;
walk paths paved in gold.
And for that, rest he shouldn’t
even with shoes covered in mold.