My Old Blue Pumps

I kept them on,

my old blue pumps.

You see,

I could see a broad band

of sharp shells

and pebbles

and other flotsam

between me and the sea

so I kept them on,

my old blue pumps,

until I’d crossed over.

I eased them off carefully

but even so the sharp sand

grazed my heels.

Never mind,

the sea would sooth them,

wash away the pain

with the ingrained sand.

And it did

as I swam.

But at the end

they were no longer waiting for me

on the shoreline,

my old blue pumps.

No longer waiting when I emerged

healed and refreshed,

no longer waiting

but captured by the sea

and washed away with the rest.


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