so poem – two

so my grandmother did not wear moccasins.

but if she did i can imagine her dragging her toes each step
grinding stride
toe to heel, destroying them emery board style and slow as she walked from the bus stop home
(but definitely more toe
like vowels sung in an opera
holding place for the pain)
that sneaky pain
wearing out her history
tiny holes in bigger holes
wearing in a path made a million times before

buses ain’t no place for squaws.
even in penny loafers.

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