They sit in a row 
outside the kindergarten, 
black, red, brown, all 
with those brass buckles. 
Remember when you couldn't 
buckle your own 
overshoe 
or tie your own 
overshoe 
or tie your own shoe 
or cut your own meat 
and the tears 
running down like mud 
because you fell off your 
tricycle? 
Remember, big fish, 
when you couldn't swim 
and simply slipped under 
like a stone frog? 
The world wasn't 
yours. 
It belonged to 
the big people. 
Under your bed 
sat the wolf 
and he made a shadow 
when cars passed by 
at night. 
They made you give up 
your nightlight 
and your teddy 
and your thumb. 
Oh overshoes, 
don't you 
remember me, 
pushing you up and down 
in the winter snow? 
Oh thumb, 
I want a drink, 
it is dark, 
where are the big people, 
when will I get there, 
taking giant steps 
all day, 
each day 
and thinking 
nothing of it?

Poet: Anne Sexton
Poem: The Fury Of Overshoes
Volume: The Death Notebooks
Year: Published/Written in 1974

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