Shoehorn

Hylbert Masserdine woke up,
stretched, said, “Mornin'”
to himself in the mirror,
extended one long arm

over the bed until
he found his favorite
shoehorn, the one with
mother-of-pearl inlay

in the shape of his own
mother, or what he imagined
his mother to be. He wrestled
each toe into its location,

his thoughts into the right
rhythm. He always felt like
he could do anything, once
he had his shoes on, once

everything was right again, the
nastiness of sleep shaken off,
all its perpetual quakings, its
cavalcade of nameless want.

 

 

Oh, and hey, don’t forget: My chapbook Secret Rivers is available now.

 

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