I NEVER ASKED YOU

I never asked you to remove your shoes.
I asked you to leave them on your feet,
as evidence that you were always so busy crossing a bridge.
I asked you to tie your shoes with leather strips.
And then tie the leather strips together into the side of a ball.
I didn’t ask you to kick the ball.
But I did say rather conclusively
that if you didn’t kick the ball when I gave the signal,
meetings to be arranged on your behalf might be cancelled,
candlelight might be drawn for the sake of your feet.
And clouds, kissed with my lips, might actually
bother to originate in the heart of a struggling world.