The Boy with One Shoe

no more than twelve

walks like he is trying to sneak up on the world,

hesitating with each step,

as if the world is trying to take the little he has left.

People stare,

not at him,

but at the spot where the other shoe was,

as if absence could define him.

He walks on, keeping his silence,

tightening the lace of the shoe that remains,

a small ritual to hold himself together

in a world that notices only what is gone.

At night, when the streets are empty,

he lifts his foot and roams the cold pavement,

letting the chill remind him

that he can still feel.