Shoes by Frank McMahon

Shoes, pointing in all directions

as if they could not decide which

way  to go. Ahead the river,

wide and fast, its shore empty of

boats. And people. The shoes, fissured,

soiled, heels broken; children’s clogs. As

they stood in their final sunlight:

prayers? Huddles of comfort? Piss and

shit leaking onto ancient leather.

Hurled backwards, no funeral flowers

save the smoke curling from the guns.

Downwards, where the Duna receives

them, cold, reddening as it flows,

mere dross and cargo. A flask of

spirits opened, a cigarette

lit, safety catches on, the world

more Judenfrei.

Shoes, now again

pointing in all directions.

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