mud

I'm this shoe stuffed with mud,
brown in brown on brown. The ground's not
firm, not firm enough. Don't step
with me. Slide into me, and don't
take out my even browner tongue. Tattered
leather, leave it. Leave it there, folded in,
pinned in with more mud, and in on itself. It'd rather
not flap loose. To move would twist it, and twist
its words looser. That's the trap. Keep it still
here to brown with you, and the browner mud.