Push.

The other day
I drew a face
on the bottom of my shoe,
on the soul.

It was a hard looking face
with a strong chin (‘so handsome’ my mother would say)
and a stiff upper lip.
No tongue.

But there was a sad softness in his eyes.
A meloncholy something
to his monotone brow,
that made me wonder
how he felt
getting stood on
every day.

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8 thoughts on “Push.

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