“Those are too fabulous,” you say, “To die for!”
Your eyes, grown prurient from the looking,
bulge and slide
like eels packed tightly in a ten-gallon tank.
“They’re so right,” you sigh.
Then
you gasp, resolutely,
“I simply must have them. Nothing else will do.”
Squinting through the half-inch glass,
I try to see what you see,
feel the same quickening chill that slackens your spine.
I’d like to experience the same Nirvana, Zazen, Heaven, but
I’m sorry to say,
I only see shoes.
Nice black, though.

Copyright ©2000 by Brian Tacang. All rights reserved.
Brian’s biography page