CORK SHOES by Lawrence Bridges

Large warehouse. Empty parking lot. No access

other than melting through the wall at a spot

by the letters of a sign, “no entry”.

Tragically, it’s come to this, only freedom

with no subject besides soreness of skeleton,

only myopia in the dream of public snarkery

shoving us elections and consumer self-righteousness.

I’ve collapsed into rotation and am going about it

(operating a vehicle for example) the same way,

the way I shower clean and dress natty so

the first thing you notice is my cork shoes.

Tough job teaching a class of actors how to cry today.

Over at the Yankee Den, the ballerinas bake with Coke.

I’m swirling with all emotions and nobody’s parked outside

for miles of Joshua trees. It’s that simple to start.

Just fake it on. And here’s how to stop. Look in a mirror.

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