The Devil's Moccasins
By Madeline Bridgen
The shopkeeper is the Devil, a sheen of horns upon His skull,
His eyes captivate the senses and drive them into a lull.
He puts His most enticing wares inside the window’s ledge;
Bought and traded from friends and fans on the inferno’s edge—
He used to ride about the country, debauchery among the plains;
Now He’s the Satan of the city, a merchant with an eye for gains.
***
Enter Little Lucy Lane, tapping with a coin upon the frigid glass,
She sees a pair of moccasins on which she cannot pass;
For the shoes are lined with carrion and sown with sinew thread,
The soles are soaked with blubber fat and encased in lead,
The heels are made from scalps fresh from broken heads,
And the laces woven with old veins as soft as frozen bread.
***
Satan steps upon the porch to watch the road from His dingy sill,
He sees her point out the shoes and offer Him a bill.
He says, “You’re old enough to die but not yet old enough to kill—
You have neither need nor want of moccasins sown out of sin.
Now get ye gone from my shop steps before I pitch you in
The boiling vat of blood and brine I left down in my kitchen.”
***
He snorts a laugh so hot that His lips begin to peel.
So you can say what you want about the Prince of Lies,
But He only sells to sinners who have souls that please His eyes:
The people who have skill enough to return His rash investments
Are not the type to pay the Devil just in cash advancements.