Two Lovers, One Shoe

They pass our apartment on a Saturday afternoon—
two lovers quarrel like a couple of Indy cars running out
of fuel, his left foot bare, she’s wrapped herself in a
Pendleton Blanket, a real Navajo gemstone,
and the man wears one shoe and smokes an unlit cigarette
and cries and cries as she repeats his sentence of death.

“I don’t want to be with you anymore,” she tells him through
his torrent of tears as he demands to use her phone;
(the man with one shoe).

“leave me ALONE!!”

“where’re you going? please, PLEASE!”


I watch from the porch. I feel bad for the man with one shoe,
the girl wrapped in the Natives’ soul, the two young lovers
with no idea how many times their hearts will break,
no idea how many fish swim blindly out at sea
where the ocean filled with rusty hooks that poke your skin and
leave horrible scars on the unshaven face and legs.

when the moon comes out, the crying man with one shoe 
and his barefoot lover crawl into the sobbing night.
the sobbing man with no shoes and his lover wrapped tightly

in the solace of her Pendleton Blanket.