a newspaper was pummeled
into my driveway.
the snow has wiped its blood
left me with a blank empty slate of
If those scraps of paper
had declared war on all that I wish I believed in,
I would not have heard.
My shoes trampled
its white plastic shell
into the snow.
The military stripes on the stairs
don't do anything to dry our shoes.
Two people walk down the hallway
in the company of their sneakers.
They smile to each other--
Their shoes, I mean.
He is blond and silent. To him
Apollo is a spaceship
once, twice, thrice, sent up
to touch the varnish of the stars.
He has on sneakers
but they have never bruised newspapers
nor chattered with wet sounds of melted snow.
He does not look as if this makes him sad.
I will never know.