For a moment I thought I had it. Mi senorita bonito, el amor de mi vida, readymade with gleaming sons, wedding bound. One day a one man carnival and then; a zookeeper, backwasher, permanent Santa Claus. “Father?” ⠀œYes son, what do you need?” “Shoes. I’ve spent all the money and forget to buy shoes.” “Are you sure you want mine, their so ( treadless, heels unstitched, leather kinked and wrinkled but polished, always polished. Memories of little feet sliding in them, hooking tongue as I lifted into step, my flop flop march across the hardwood floor.) old and used” And there I was once more, my feet now grown and now I was prepared. Pressed into size 10 shoes and I could feel the discomfort in my size 11 souls. You could have said, “Son run, run to the whores, run to your hand, run away from those sins of another man. Run to your dream wife who’s face as light glows through closed lids like stained glass, illuminating blood capillaries the color of fresh lava and if you concentrate appears into your frontal lobe as vapor apparition. She is your soul mate, your starlet projected against a screen of inner skull.” You could have told me father, not to wear them. Nearly two years since she left me now father. I have no need for your prophet shoes. But they’ve stretched since then and are now, I admit, quite comfortable.