Lone shoe at the edge of the road, hundreds
across America, waiting
pointing away from things.
My grandma would say, “Someone needs to gather them up before the rain”.
Then she would tell that person, “Hang on to whatever you gather because the rest will turn up;
the world is full of pieces of things. Look at flea markets, this and that all over the place waiting
to be found, and the universe, loaded with a zillion things floating around, looking for something.
There’s nothing to be done about it.”
Everything is searching,
waiting at the edge
for the rest to turn up.