Left Behind

I left one school shoe on a bus
and it drove ma crazy,
as if one shoe
were somehow more offensive
than none at all.

I was a forgetful kid
(it runs in the family)
would walk around buried in a book
or swimming through stories,
watching ghosts wander with me,
whispering to them as I breathed.

Eventually I grew out of it;
the school shoes, lunch boxes,
tracksuit pants, homework diaries,
the shadow water and childhood treasure:
abandoned for another dream.

But dreams have an odd way
of winding back on themselves,
returning strangely
to what they were before and now,
still a small boy wandering awake,
a strange loop
woven in the beach sand behind him,
made by some fool with one shoe
hobbling in the moonlight;

the other foot careless,
lost in the ocean.

TRACE

Love Generation

Given