The shelter sleeps like a ghost at night
and I walk with him during the
day, his one shoe on my right foot –

I barely look like a woman,
or if anything, a ******* waiting for
someone to provide her a second
glass slipper & slip off her ball gown.

She will lay on her back in a motel –
beautiful as a tulip’s head
nursing on fertilizer for sustenance
but largely agreeable with champagne.

Even lying on pillows like a pubescent
chest, perky and barely touched,
she is a **** alone with leather boots.

No one knows his name but
he comes and goes and feels like home,
the fuzz still in her eyes from sleep
still collected from a previous divorce.

I visit the shadow with my tongue
and only mothballs when the sun sets –
an uncomfortable rat in the soles too.