Redolent

At home, I enjoy
the simple sight
of a worn pair of
woman’s shoes
lying imprecisely
on the floor.

I don’t much care
for the ones in the closet,
so neatly arranged
in a row,
nor for those cloistered
in the rack,
waiting in the dark
for the light of
another day.

I like a
pair of leather pumps
resting in disarray
at the side of the bed,
or of sandals,
there on the rug by the couch;
discarded in such a haphazard way
that the comforting sight of their
casual disorder is
redolent
with intimacy and abandon.