Shoes

worn at the heels.
flecked with manure.
weary.
the always there shoes
you might squeeze into
a crammed waste basket.

not "misshapen" not cumbersome
like the shoes Gaugin favored
after his friend's labors.
not the stand-ins swollen
at the high tide line, left
abandoned on a winter beach.

thin, corded slippers.
frayed.
set side by formal side
like matching columns of text
at the rear of this Turkish mosque
in the middle of lonely Cardak.

where windows are dusted over
so you must intuit his existence,
the wayfarer within.
saved from the blister of the day.
troubling his sixteen beads

while his shoes remain
faithful, arranged, waiting
like troubled aspirations
to go on to keep on
in spite of everything.