He walks out of the Pic and Save carrying his old shoes and wearing his new ones. At first, he’s high-stepping like a drum major. But a block away his new shoes feel intensely uncomfortable. They are longer and narrower than his old ones. They don’t bend. The soles hit flat on the sidewalk. He veers left, over-corrects and stumbles right. This is dangerous. He hears a chugging sound and discovers each shoe has a little motor in it, and each motor has a mind of its own. He lunges forward to a bench next to a small lake. He takes off his new shoes, puts on his old ones, and tosses the new ones into the lake. He watches them putt away, totally uncoordinated, bobbing this way and that, wobbling their way to someplace he personally would never consider going.

after molting
a bird builds its new nest
with its old feathers

—Adapted from “New Shoes,” which appears in Gilmore’s collection of lineated poems Panning for Gold (Imago Press, 2014)

Bio: Dan Gilmore