Swinging

Watching the tennis shoes swung over the telephone line outside my room spin clockwise in the wind.

The curtains are parted just so that I have a slim view of the outdoors.

And now the one shoe recoils back into a counter clockwise turn.

The shoes are oblivious to time. They spin with nature.

Wind the other day blew at the show and now only one swings while the other holds onto the power line, keeping them up there against the wishes of gravity.

The mountains cannot be seen today. Clouds and rain have made their presence too strong.

Blue sky is somewhere up above, but not visible to this eye, not on this late Wednesday afternoon.

Half of the shoe has disintegrated, leaving the sole hanging from the body of the object. What once were serviceable to the human foot now hang pathetically over 19th St, a testament to how everything practical can become abandoned and useless.

The car down the road, it will be one of many that will be culprit to the final demise of these shoes when they finally fall 30ft to the aging tar surface below.

Perhaps it will be my car, all shiny and new, that runs over the old, soggy shells of shoes they used to be.

There lives a dog on this street. He may pick up and run with them, a temporary new toy for his fleeting amusement.

Everything is fleeting.