…poems hide. In the bottoms of our shoes,
they are sleeping… What we have to do
is live in a way that lets us find them.

—Naomi Shihab Nye from “A Valentine for Ernest Mann”

•••

If I take off my shoes
and tuck myself into bed,
might poems awaken,

peek their little syllabic heads
out from the insoles and decide,
now, now it’s safe to emerge?

And might different poems
sleep in different footwear?
Haiku in sandals, perhaps,

because three lines are
easy to hide even in such
an open-air environment?

Sonnets, well done ones,
might rest in more elegant
soles—nice heels—while

dirty limericks might feel more
at home in f***-me stilettos
or hang-loose flip-flops.

In any case I’m leaving
several pairs in my bedroom
tonight—the wider tennis

shoes more friendly to
bunions, the soft slippers
that cuddle older arches,

the favorite sandals with
rubber toes to guard against
stubbing. I want to see

if the poems in the bottoms
of my shoes walk in their
sleep, maybe hop up

on the bed and drape
themselves, like the old
cat, along my side,

warm and comforting,
leaving behind a trace
themselves,

in lines that might
beg to be written down
come morning.