The beautiful people talk about shoes
and yester-whatever’s flesh conquests
or they complain about not
finding something sacred and magical
amid the rubble of a quarter-lifetime
of settling for the next boy-girl-man-woman
that completes them where the last
boy-girl-man-woman
left off
They are the beautiful ones
and do not need to notice shoes bought on the sale rack
or recognize two parents in Middletown, Wherever
who never taught them about shoes and who somehow
through luck, fate or naiveté found each other
and laid claim to the prize of a softer world
Sometimes I walk barefoot
and the ground seems to give
So I cock my head down slightly
and pretend to limp when someone is near
because I do not want to be ordinary