I know you from your shoes.
I've never been a shoe person,
and your grey canvas brown
leather laces can do nothing about it.
But now, the white salt stains
capture me and I know you're not from here.
Dried mud lines the rubber soles;
you're adventurous. Your heavy
Catalonian accent trickles off your toes
where Spanish drops have before.
Tied in a worn-down knot
are leather laces--
are they faux? Are you faux--
or are you just tired? As you ruffle
through your lady's bag, she glares
between you and I, as I am glancing at you.
But she does not see your shoes.
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