we wear the big shoes;
daddies shoes. leather. well polished.

in them we tread over
broken vases and hot coals.

over crumbling bridges
and into dark places we’re told not to be.

over the freshly buried dead
and atop cranky ol’ mr. adams’ grass.

only those with the best shoes
can venture the farthest.

we stay away from the boys
with bare feet. they can’t keep up.

besides,
all they do is walk and work.

cutting lawns
and digging their graves.

we’d give them daddies shoes,
but we’re busy playing

under the 50 watt sun.