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Aran Donovan

TWO LEFT FEET

I cannot be danced,

not, certainly, led,

not foxtrotted, conned,

not fixed. I haven’t

the shoes. Once, pelt

ruined, a dead fox lay

roadside. Footless, for

I never saw it run. 

I hadn’t the shoes

to lend it, moonless

and mindstunned. Return

to my empty window worse

than begun.

Own waltz, own trolley,

ding dong. The right

steps and I’m gone. Good 

as useless, these shoes.

I’ve tried. Black nights come

for everyone.

 

—from Rattle #42, Winter 2013