there was an old woman who lived in a shoe,
except she had only me, the fates said no two.
the kind lumberjack father passed into the giant's gob
and experienced god and told us about god.
now only us two lived in the shoe,
my mother the spinster with her favorite cat, me,
and me the medieval page making a go
at living a quiet solid noble life free.
two against the world, our treehouse the bunker
from all of the catastrophes of flood and from fuckers.
mom and i huddled together for warmth,
one blanket between us, tattered and torn.
"i need new shorts," i mentioned one day,
they were stained all to hell, but i was too embarrassed to say.
instead she got me new shoes because i needed them,
or my feet would have developed sores the next week again.
"i want to taste ribs," i mentioned one time,
"but don't go through all the trouble for nothing me."
she got just what i wanted---those tasty burnt ends---
and made sure to buy each of the new sauces three.
when i was a sprite, she laid out my clothes for me on my hay bed
and tells me, the lad, that a man must have shoes,
spinning her silk at night while i slept
so i can venture into the world comfortable, with no abuse.
the real world has never been real to me,
i have forever locked the door to a real me,
i make sense of the universe in a fantasy
where my mother is an eternal entity.
in the shoe, for winter has come early,
the two of us hug each other close,
viewing the window, a bright sheet of pearly,
not looking at each other but close.
i never want the old lady to swallow a fly...