the next time

by Heather Rae

maybe I won't
get hitched
on the rusty nail
that hangs
children's shoes,
spattered 
by mud puddles
or scuffed
by laces
refusing to
behave.
I still
find it peculiar
that each pair
never quite fit
maybe they
weren't meant to.
There was always
the eternal
"maybe next time",
furled in the brows
with silent cries of
"i will try better"
nipping on it's heels.
Soft toes to high tops
and every in-between,
why they begged
and stretched, 
even arched through
the toplines
and moving tongues,
always some give
which counted
for something.
The next time,
soles were bare,
never by choice
(but what was)
percale or cotton
either kept
the dogs 
quiet, just didn't
silent the
snow filled screen
in my head.
next time
it didn't matter,
I lost my matter,
literally,
chalk outline
drawn on the ceiling
not that an officer
would happen by,
see , no more 
steps to climb,
fitting no longer
pertinent
the next time.