Footprint

Tonight the world is weeping, dropping clouds
On weary wanderers who walk without
Umbrella, coat or hat—they wade through shrouds
Of loneliness and days of endless doubt.
A size six shoe breaks the puddle’s surface,
And shakes the building’s one-dimensional
Façade. A skidding car then plants a kiss
Of passion uncontrollable.
The relatives arrived; each wore black.
The pastor quoted psalms—someone prayed
To stir the stagnant air. They dug a grave, a dusty crack.
In earth’s bosom the body laid.
A puddle by the sidewalk holds a view
Of a size six imprint of a child’s shoe.