John's Shoe Store

by Kenneth Pobo

John measures my feet,
goes behind a curtain,
returns with a rectangular box.
Life feels ordered,
unlike my school desk,
so crammed
that I can’t fully close
the top. Driving home,

elm leaves
blow down,
swirl, flatten
on the windshield. Night

wears no shoes, steps
nimbly down our street,
hops up to rest
on our roof.