DEAD MAN’S SHOES
Gregory Kimball
In the alley in the rain with his head in his hands things weren’t going as Willy had planned.
Broke, forlorn and driven to drink. Into the pits of perdition he was beginning to sink.
His wife was gone and his dog had died. He was running rather low on dignity and pride.
Sitting and staring as the rain came down. If his mouth had been open he would probably drown.
Out in the alley with the rest of the trash, heartbroken and blubbering with zero cash.
Poor little Willy had nothing to lose when he stumbled upon the dead man’s shoes.
Wingtips they were, polished and bright and they shone like a beacon in the dark of the night
Inside of the shoes were the dead man’s feet with the rest of him there like a side of meat.
There in the alley: Stiff, spoiled and dead with black plastic bags for his final bed.
Off they came, quick as a flash and the dead man’s body sunk in the trash.
On they went and Harry stood tall. They fit rather well though a little too small.
Into a grin his lips stretched wide and he felt his body filling with pride.
Suddenly his heart then ceased to pump and his head hit the ground with a terrible thump.
Along came Hector, dejected and alone. He was feeling the loneliness deep down in his bones.
Poor little Hector had nothing to lose when he stumbled upon the dead man’s shoes.
Gregory Kimball is 51, originally from Dallas, Texas, and presently domiciled in Anchorage, Alaska. He has two sons, 18 and 23. He checks the obituaries each day to see if his ex-wife has died yet. He’s been writing for a little over ten years, most of which has been for wintersteel.com.
read more of his work in dm xlviii ~ bel ennui ~
