Thousand: Seven Hundred Seventy-Seven

We have carob. We have almonds. We have dried cranberries and burnt shotgun shells. We have pizza and pizzetta and peppers. We have dog shit and glue and barbecue-flavored pickles in shoes.” The man flinches at the last word. The magpie continues, “We have shoes in the shape of Manchuria and shoes of glass and wire. We have shoes fit for a king’s heel and comforting to a pauper’s corns. We have shoes of brown and shoes of white and shoes of.” “Brown and white?” the man says. He pats the dashiki, feels for pockets that aren’t there. He fumbles