the far flung shoes of pear trees,
sit on the windowsill
in the kitchen,
wearing their motley hides proudly
like the Florsheims my father wore on endless hospital rounds.
Unfortunately, I’ve let them sit too long.
Now they wait to sink,
musky and wineful,
into the compost pile
where maybe moles will enjoy them
on a savage mole holiday,
passing them drunkenly around the burrow,
slavering and telling of the time
when the river rose and flooded mole town
and whole mole clans became dinner for wildly happy crows.