I saw a pair of old cork sandals,

Melancholic by the mountain road.

Were they thrown out of a car

As the owner drove by the

Bold rocks and mountainside 


Did someone

Walk in them for a while,

Then decide that they were

Better off free, and

Continued on their journey

Without support? 

Maybe not much

Was there nowadays.

But these sandals were present

In a ditch of dust and dirt and

Fallen pine needles and rocks,

And I can't help but wonder

How the poor things got there;

Their travels over.