My shoelaces have achieved the look of the unknown.
Strangers stare at them as if they’ve become autistic
and contain secrets when they’re
really only frayed and coming undone.
Whenever I reach down to tie them, I appear even
stranger, and suddenly I have the honor of people
believing I’m a whore in
love and corduroy.
And I may love, but I have no desire
to confuse love with shoelaces.