Vincent Van Gogh’s Shoes

They rest before you unlaced, motionless,
vessels of a workaday world of worn leather
and tired feet.

The tile floor beneath a patchwork
of muted blues, orange, reds
slanting downward from upper right
to lower left, a plane slightly skewed
from the angled shoes as though
the pair stand alone, unviolated
sovereign in some gathered
silence.

No pretensions here.
No ornamentation of
high art.
No gods or kings,
No nymphs or castles.

You think:
this is the secret life of objects
passed over by unseeing eyes
caught in traffic of loss and gain,
distraction and desire.

You think:
this is a truth of what we wear,
this is a message from a
pair of shoes.

This is the world in which we
come to live and die.