Carolyne Bruyn
Gumshoe
The shoe is still in the old garden
of the factory on Broadway.
One shoe, squashed and dirty,
sprawled across its laces on the bitumen.
It's not much of a garden now.
All the same, there's a high wrought iron gate
with shiny padlock. That shoe is there to stay.
The right shoe. Lying there
remembering the awkward running footsteps.
Come on. Come on !
Out of breath.
Quick, let's duck in here.
Over the gate. SHH h h h
It's okay now. All quiet.
But we can't stay here. What's wrong?
I'm hit. I can't go on.
Try. I'll help. Just follow me.
Do what I do. You'll be right.
No, I'm finished. Lost my sock. My soul.
I've nothing left. You go on. Leave me.
I can't. You must. Are you sure?
Yes, yes. Go on. I'll get some help. Just rest.
< F a d e >
Wait !
What? Breathless.
We were good together, weren't we?
Yes. Yes, we were.
The sound of one shoe hopping
