The Shoe

It is very late. I must be disturbing everyone with my typing. A shoe comes in the window. A nice shoe. It seems to be smiling at me. I'll keep it.

When do I fall asleep?

Now the police come. I am accused of disturbing the peace. Neighbors stand in the door. I get the shoe. Holding it out as evidence, I ask, what is the meaning of this? The policeman goes to call his sergeant. One neighbor goes insane with rage. Is there a fight? Am I knocked cold?

When I wake up it is morning in Vladivostok. Birds sing outside my cell window.

Years pass.

My reputation as one of the best poets in Vladivostok grows. The critics never tire of talking about my lilting rhythms in the pages of Poetry Vladivostok. My name becomes a household word. The intellectuals clamor for my release. When the masses join in, the government has no choice. I am pardoned and cheered through the streets. In the National Soccer Palladium I make a speech to the assembled millions. I announce the coming of the Revolution. The cheering is picked up by sensitive instruments on the moon. The government, all at once cognizant of its crimes and deeply ashamed, falls willingly. One by one, the cabinet ministers file up to the platform, strip off their clothes, make full confessions, ask for forgiveness, and embrace my knees, kissing my feet. They are sentenced to be skewered, skinned and stuffed. Gratefully, they accept their fate.

Then there is dancing. But I have only one shoe. Some kindly Vladivostokians take notice. They lead me to a beautiful girl. She is also wearing only one shoe. It is the very mate of mine!

I am awakened by the sound of shoe-like weeping. There is my wonderful shoe on the window sill, dreaming of Vladivostok.