Snow Job
One sneaker. Glitter blue, hi-top, in the middle of the A-Plus Pawn lot. Might fit Baby Girl, she needs new pair, Lord knows you’re broke. Your feet kick fresh snow, digging for the mate. Closer, red stains the silver laces. A crow caws from the dumpster. More blue. Flakes sift from the sky.
Runners-up
John Mannone -
When the Moons Pull Together
The orange moon, and the blue one, too, rose above the purple desert. That’s when they came out, the Sneakers, slithering through the folds of sand. Their tendrils ready to grasp at your feet and vine themselves up the wall of your legs, torso, neck — a thousand iridescent blue eyes all over you.
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Frances Lefkowitz -
You Don’t WantYou don’t have to be blue to sleep fourteen hours, riding a wave of no thing then imagined, wished, remembered, feared things. Perhaps you’re avoiding the sneakers stepping up to your door to deliver the prize—new job, lover, or house. Perhaps you don’t want the blue ribbon after all. Perhaps failing is greener.
