I wish I had inside shoes and outside shoes

Like some of my friends.

Coming or going? No problem.

They look at their feet.

Garden shoes (it’s written on the bottom—Garden Shoes)

at the foot of the stairs, or in the back next to the hose. 

Scuffs in the garage, flip flops beneath the bench on the porch 

under the "Shoeless Joe Jackson is Welcome" sign. 

Just joking ... about the sign, not the bench, 

those unbending slats of clammy teak where guests

must strip to their toes. 
 

How do some of my friends remember

which stay in and which stay out?

Mark them with felt pen?

The shoes, not the guests. They must.

Beige to match the carpet; blue like the sky.

Or does it take inside-outside minds to manage inside,

outside shoes? Inside, outside talk? Inside, outside friends?

An inside God, beige to match the carpet,

An outside God, blue like the sky.

Would that not be, to say the least, spiritually incorrect?

Apparently not, some of my friends use more shalts and shalt nots  

than you can flick a twig at. 
 

I’ve never seen some of my friends barefoot, inside or out. 

Never have seen them hop—scattering clods of thoughts

like unworked soil in the spring

or splay pebbles into cracks of concrete with their toes.

They step out of their shoes as slick as flipping  burgers

from a pan to a plate—left on the left, right on the right,

under the bench that is under the sign that says,

"Shoeless Joe Jackson is Welcome".

Just joking ... about the sign, not the friends.

...just some of my friends.

I have others. 

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