as the star,
and I the red-carpet. He received
glowing reviews walking with
buckled shoes.

He walked over me
as autumn leaves
swirling around on the ground
crunching the sound of pieces flaking
under his leather soul, breaking into
the wind and the cold.

He walked over me
as the mat lying under
his door, wiping his feet, the dirt
and the grease on. I, the stain hung on.

He walked over me
a memory that he folded and tucked
in his bureau drawer, under his yellowed
hanky and stacks of papers and books,
in the nook. And he didn't gander
a second look, no sir.