Wingtips
In the back of the closet where I keep the things I’ve given up: the smoking jacket, the cardigan, the bolo tie with its black string and its silver and turquoise clasp, the cowboy boots I bought at the spur of the moment, among those costumes and props of another life, there where I’d hidden the could-have-been-mes, the better-mes, and worse-mes, too, I find my wingtips–two tone and dusty–and lift them each for inspection. They’d look good on you, you insist, and you might be right, if only I knew what I’d done with the rest of my wings.