Poetry

I wore only new shoes that summer. He asked to walk with me. My heels sank into mud. We took the woodsy path to the cliffside bar where the older teenagers kissed. The gossips told my mother this. I didn't catch his name. I hardly looked at his face. He was traveling up and down the boot to festivals of the saints. A pellegrino. In my mother's childhood, they walked barefoot for their penance, prayed at the church. He wore grown men's shoes and zippered pants. He walked