Shoes on Subway.
The subway cars are full of shoes. Little ones, no bigger than my hand, that look like they belong to cartoon superheroes. Others, leather and long and well shined, sitting still under a bench while the former foam and rubber ones spin around a pole on their heels. There’s a line of shoes: dirty black sneakers, patent leather open toed pumps with a flower of tassel and fake pearls set on top, two pink mocassins, a pair of tan leather boots.
One pair mumbles down the aisle trailing a tired voice that says Jesus and money and kindness and fate. All of the shoes shuffle around and crowd together, or, when they find the space, they move as far from other pairs as they can manage.