by Leah Pileggi
A plastic grocery bag with something inside
leaned with ease against the starving tree.
A damp twist of laundry?
Books with no words?
Three pairs of
What I know of
is that they are made for
two particular feet
only those two.
How did she forget them?
Running for the bus that
almost got away?
Distracted by a
a pas de deux inside
ignoring, forgetting everything else?
Or did she quit dancing,
just as I walked down the street?
* * * * *
Leah Pileggi grew up in Kane, Pennsylvania, a tiny town in the middle of the Allegheny National Forest. She didn’t have many books as a child but now has more than one person probably should. She studied creative writing at Chatham University and professional writing at Carnegie Mellon University. Her work has appeared in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, The Chautauquan Daily, Mental Floss, The New York Times Magazine, and Hopscotch Magazine. Her middle-grade historical novel, Prisoner 88, is an Indies First pick and an NCTE notable book. She lives in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.
A delicately poignant puzzle, no?ReplyDelete
Beautifully put! I will never know why they were forgotten.Delete
I love the images this poem evokes!! Thank you!ReplyDelete