She hasn't worn shoes
since August 14, 1987.
Since then her bare heels have sufficed.
"Did you know that asphalt contains lye?", she asks you.
Sometimes, when she has to walk
to Fitchburg
to see her kids
she can feel the pain as deep as her bones.
Chemical burns. Summertime sun hot on blacktop.
But on this day in February, both of you are standing on ice.
900 block of your street. Not sure where she lives,
but she's a fixture on the near east side.
She tells you it often takes her two hours
just to walk two blocks, which is how
she likes it. Walk. Sweep. Spit.
From the space where her top four front teeth should be
she spits again, as if no one's watching.
Her eyes dart
as if everyone is.
It's when she tells you about her sextuplets
(five put up for adoption)
that you begin to wonder if, in fact,
she's missing more than her shoes.
Before she was shoeless, she had a husband.
Had a son with the same name as you.
Drowned in 1984. You were six years old then.
Abusive marriage.
She danced atop her ex-husband's car.
She was arrested.
Strip searched.
That's when she took off her shoes for the last time.
Summer of 1987. True story.
Her permanent callouses attests to this.
She spits one last time, as if no one's watching.
Her eyes dart
as if everyone is.
But no one is watching Carrie. It's OK.
She needs no audience.
She sweeps. Purposeful. Shoeless.
