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For today’s prompt, write a footwear poem. A poem about shoes, flip flops, socks, slippers, flippers, boots, pumps, and so on. If you’d prefer not to dedicate a poem to your footwear, just mention footwear somewhere in the poem. That’s right; your hi-tops don’t have to be the star, and it’s totally cool if somebody’s clogs play a minor role in the poem.

Today’s prompt doesn’t do it for me. Maybe it’s because I ate breakfast when I usually don’t; maybe it’s because we shopped all morning for used cars; maybe it’s because my blood sugar bottomed out at noon; maybe it’s because I took a three hour nap. Who really knows?

But while I napped, I dreamt of a peace of art I created. I apparently stole it; because I couldn’t draw or paint, and everybody in the art class knew. It was a painting of a two-colored bird mad up of little colored birds. It had a triangular head and told me I couldn’t follow it because I wore boots. Dam, silly creative minds. I then drifted into creating a poem about the scoter migration now underway. Not thrilled about it, but there it is, a strained scoter sonnet.

They began their day from the shores of Cape May
They fly in groups, ten, twenty, a hundred and ten
As the sun goes down they land in my bay
An annual trek you don’t see very often

They bob with the ice, a half-million strong
Black Scoters mostly, and they don’t feel like talking
Bare foot and pregnant, an oily slick throng
I’d join them but, my boots are made for walking

Look honey, the annual migration
Fundy accepts them, I stand on her shore
Most people never witness their April invasions
I wouldn’t want to be a fish, out there

Bound for the Arctic
Where they’ll temporarily park it

 

 

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