An old sneaker splits a vent and suddenly
it’s shoe shopping day again;
or maybe it’s not new shoes but the start
of the old foot finally going commando,
getting tough, calloused, human leather,
un-supple as a goat’s horn.
Proper grammar and math parameters
say the finish comes after the start.
Songs and every-day witness tell the opposite.
The sun returns after a dark night,
the glory-fisted medalist is again democratically crouched
in his blocks,
the pisces we ate begets our energy to swim.
And this hopeful reversal:
one lived after dying, ended before beginning.
If it happened once, it can happen again.
We have sung and sung the hymn.
All we know or have ever known
is beginnings following endings.
See-through body, oxidized primer,
idiotically slow in the wrong lane then cutting in
without asking permission with a blinker — worse,
using the left blinker to merge right.
Underinflated tires, slumped posterior,
headlights caked-over with dead flies and dim —
dimwit driver as well, no doubt.
Entitled, clueless, wan, slow, and in the way.
It deserves every bit of the horn
and the second blast to boot.