Parable of the Russian Shoes

two poems

In a white stretch limo, even a visiting writer with a gold tooth and black Russian shoes is tolerable. Even one who drones on about how his long lost first novel, printed and forgotten in 1955, was reprinted this year with an introduction by Sting, and a new cover, one meant for a study of swans, rejected by the swan study author, and slapped on the rediscovered novel, a brilliant stroke because his novel has absolutely nothing to do with swans. The Committee to Find a Not Too Expensive Fiction Writer had suggested the white limo as a further enticement to bring him to our modest campus, and it worked, but perhaps too well. Just as we cross the bridge, at the highest point, it begins to snow. Not just gusts, but buckets of snow and ice and swan pellets. That's when I notice. He's driving the limo from the back seat. This is hard to do, he laughs. I slink down my seat as the limo skids sideways. An old adage forms on my tongue: If you rent Russian shoes, then you will be charged for heel wearage. I know what will happen. His shoes will be damaged in the accident, and the Committee will be sent the charges from the rental shoe company. The Committee will balk at the charges, and my shoes will be freshly blackened and sent to the rental agency. I kiss my shoes goodbye as we slide into the bridge rail not strong enough to sustain the weight of a white stretch limo bearing serial rented cardboard shoes.

Copyright World Poetry, Incorporated Sep/Oct 2003
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