"At the Swinging Door of the Pub" by Tricia Knoll, Frequent Contributor

At the Swinging Door of the Pub

Tricia Knoll

I looked up expecting moon

and there was a swaying power line.

I looked to the power line for a squirrel

and saw two black high-tops dangling by shoestrings.

I looked at the shoes and hoped it was an omen

that you would walk back in.

The boy at the bus shelter said dangling shoes

was an our-turf gang symbol.

Another said drug sales nearby.

I saw only two wet sneakers.

My life, lonely barefoot-bereft

in front of a bar.

Poet's Notes: This poem is mostly fiction, although I always notice those pairs of shoes caught on shoestrings on wires that cross major arterials in Portland. Then I thought of how many of us wait for certain shoes on certain feet to come through the door.