Issue 3

I always keep a small rock in my left shoe
To distract from the pain of a laden pack,
I often have to tell myself to push through.
I walk through the park,
A woman in a trench hands out peanuts
Her face is marred with a purple beauty mark.
Strangers look at her oddly
But she smiles through it all, as I stomp past
Making sure to look at her fondly.
The walk to school is always brisk
And I work up a fine sheen,
Always to be balked at by my peers as if I lack
hygiene.
The last part of my walk
Takes me past the cats of the cemetery
it makes me think of wider moral social
commentary.
Maybe these cats represent souls
Or maybe you die and are lucky to become one of
their food bowls.
At least, I have given this stone in my shoe
a journey it can write home about too.
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