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old blue pickup

Before you judge a man, walk
a mile in his shoes. After
that, who cares? He’s a mile
away, and you’ve got his shoes.

Billy Connolly


I’ve a case of the two-mile blues
in the back of my truck
that broke down on the outskirts
of a dangerous town where the folk
are known to be mighty and prim
with their sensitive talk
about feelings and wings, always
flapping political, never nonsensical—
makes me want to scribble in chalk:
Before you judge a man, walk!

I’ve drunk half the case
of my two-mile blues, so I’m
just about ready to float
into town. Prepared for their issues,
I’ve brought lots of tissues
to wipe tears of laughter
that spurt when I’m supposed
to be mad. I’ve a date to go
dancing with a velociraptor
a mile in his shoes, after.

The town looks deserted, but that
could just be the two-mile blues
distorting my vision of crowds
with their heads in my business,
yak-talking, and me with my usual
cluelessness, needing to be here a while.
I feel someone stalking my every
move, so I spin around quickly and…
whoa! I cover my eyes. I’m going to file
that, who cares? He’s a mile

high widget with sky-high opinions
stacked on his head like slices
of onion and a girl on his arm
with eyes that keep rolling. They’re
judging my walk and my words
and the pickles I choose
for my sandwich, but the two-mile
blues remind me to cruise how-so-ever
I want. Just throw their whiny views
away, and you’ve got his shoes!


This poem is my umpty-third glosa, a form you can learn more about here, with the opportunity to buy a whole book of them and a novella to match.

© Elaine Stirling, 2014