Secondhand Socrates

Secondhand Socrates

I’ve noticed something peculiar

while sipping my morning jo.

Nothing too serious, mind you.

Just something you need to know.


There’s usually a man out there

who asks for around six dimes


I’ve seen a few different men today

In fact, they’ve changed six times.


But that’s not even the weirdest thing.

No, I have far stranger news.

No matter how many come and go

they always leave their shoes.


So one day I was curious

and I had to go find out.

Who they were, what they were doing,

and what the shoes were about?


When I began to ask him questions,

he held firm in the wind.

Handed me a book

and smiled, “Take a look.

It’s worth the time you’ll spend.”


So I raced through the door,

drew all the curtains,

and with some bourbon insistence.

I began to read,

Then felt the need,

To question my own existence.


I skimmed every sentence front to back

68 times, in fact.

Even the colons and paragraph breaks

had an everlasting impact.


There was neither author nor publishing date

and no footnotes to ignore.

But something was brewing deep inside.

I absolutely had to know more.


I barely waited till sunrise,

to meet him at their spot.

My tummy, my rumpus, my knees and ankles

were all tied in a knot.


My silly heart had skipped a beat

when I saw no man was there.

All I found was the same pair of shoes

and a little blue note that said: