The Fury of Overshoes

by Anne Sexton
They sit in a row
outside the kindergarten,
black, red, brown, all
with those brass buckles.
Remember when you couldn’t
buckle your own
overshoe
or tie your own
overshoe
or tie your own shoe
or cut your own meat
and the tears
running down like mud
because you fell off your
tricycle?
Remember, big fish,
when you couldn’t swim
and simply slipped under
like a stone frog?
The world wasn’t
yours.
It belonged to
the big people.
Under your bed
sat the wolf
and he made a shadow
when cars passed by
at night.
They made you give up
your nightlight
and your teddy
and your thumb.
Oh overshoes,
don’t you
remember me,
pushing you up and down
in the winter snow?
Oh thumb,
I want a drink,
it is dark,
where are the big people,
when will I get there,
taking giant steps
all day,
each day
and thinking
nothing of it?
Thanks to Josh Gordon for the heads-up on this Anne Sexton poem. 
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2 thoughts on “The Fury of Overshoes

  1. Well, then! From the wonderful Ratatouille:

    Colette: Horst has done time.
    Linguini: For what?
    Colette: We don’t know. He changes the story every time you ask.
    Horst: I defrauded a large corporation.
    Horst: I robbed the second-largest bank in France using only a ball-point pen.
    Horst: I created a hole in the ozone layer over Avignon.
    Horst: I killed a man… with this thumb.

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