Sunday Shoes

Early in the morning, I stumble into downtown. By that I mean I missed the last step out of Lael's apartment building. I am swinging a paper bag – inside, a soup pot that rings each time it is set down, an indignant sterling matron. On the sidewalk the birds are singing springtime. A finch balances on a bike rack as I stroll by. Saturday night crumbs litter the street. A broken phone case, cigarette butts and empty bottles outside the Union. The sunlight and snowflakes come from the same place in the sky, gazing over the edge of the canyon, equinox air smelling like friends skipping town. The air tries to clean it all with cold, a clarity gnawing on my exposed fingers.

Outside my building are a pair of empty shoes. Strangely, I am not surprised, as this has happened before. This autumn, one stood on the roof next door, and later another kicked around the front lawn, in a different place each morning, as if it had a drunken occupant with one cold foot. A mischievous breeze with a taste for black work shoes.

Now, an impeccable pair at the bottom of the back steps. Empty, spread like the feet of a breath-bated lover leaned on his car. A brick briar, the back of my building is a romantic perch for Juliet or more likely Stella. With shoes like that I expect a dress shirt rolled up at the elbows. But, whoever delivered them, he is gone now, and only the shoes remain.

The peaceful chill, the shadows of the weekend, the abandoned footwear. This morning fell together, like the shy snowflakes, like the disjointed merge of the seasons, and the finches and I smile on.

Good laundry company. Poor shoe investigator.