Hard Soles

His moccasin house shoes

of soft leather

and hard soles

hide in the corner

between the sliding glass door

and La-Z-Boy.

Once the casserole dishes

are scraped clean,

and the phone has ceased

to ring for days,

she pulls the vacuum out

to begin the quiet routine

of erasing the dust

from their final day to days.

She strains her arms

to push open a window.

Carnations, chrysanthemums,

and hyacinths

sigh from the kitchen table,

coffee table, mantle,

and every other surface that

is empty enough to hold

a funeral vase.

She leans down

to plug in the vacuum cord,

her thin nightgown

brushing her knee,

and sees the moccasins

underneath the cat’s

indifferent nose. 

The moccasins were

a Christmas gift,

the leather now stained

an earthy brown

from the mud beside the trashcan

he wheeled out

every Thursday

and Sunday.

The laces are frayed,

still tied

in the same knot

from when he left them

lying there.

She slides her feet out

of her plush pink slippers

into the matted wool insoles

and shuffles down

the driveway

to get the letters that will

still bear his name while

she bears all the rest.  

* This poem is a break from form, which given the guidelines I set for myself is a form of cheating, so which means it is still a "form", right? Ha.

This poem came from an exercise in the wonderful book The Poet's Companion by Kim Addonizio and Dorianne Laux.  The prompt said, "Describe a pair of shoes in such a way that a reader will think of death. Do not mention death in the poem."  I thought of it this week because Brian has been away visiting family in Florida. He'll be back soon, but I started thinking about what it would be like to have lived with someone for decades and then to suddenly have to face life without them.