It Must Be Hard On My Slippers

It must be hard on my slippers,
as I drag from room to room,
head bowed like a retreating soldier
blooded in the line of fire.

I have no physical injuries to speak of
no fractured bones, flesh torn limbs,
no need for salve that soothes
or tablets to numb some searing pain.

But, I am shot in the foot,
by past mistakes and sin.
I now stand dissected,
split like loves amoeba.

I wait at closed doors
like a pining dog
at the grave of his dead master;
but they stay unopened, firmly shut.

For living alone, where
there used to be two,
doesn’t leave one….

it leaves half of you.