Dead Shoes

I step in dead shoes
clay feet with toes of stone
I stand and pause between pacings
a refugee from the referee who wastes
my time

I am spitted token of association made new
a generational shoot, a sprout from a crevice
in a sidewalk

Would that I were a comfort from the hunger
of pathologies and associations
so cumbersome and untrying

but i am not above fixations of the multitude
I drain the context and it softly withers,
steaming cold while I bleed