I have to admit failure.
Nothing new there, right?
I’ve crafted careers on climbing back downhill:
familiar bruises, old-friend scrapes:
oh – that’s where I found this new ache!
Had me there – I’d forgotten that escapade.
I hate – just three full turns past detest – shoes.
Only one thing worse:
shopping for shoes.
Two things worse.
and new sandals buying too!
I’ve admitted my horror.
My worst. My absolute engulfment
in cold-sweats and saliva-drying,
lip-cracking eyeball dehydrating fear.
And, then it happens:
My last beach-sandle goes beyond.
No longer fixable.
No longer ignorable.
No longer within a half-county
of level with the other reprobate
that struggles on and continues to give me curse
words I’ve never heard before
and hope never again or at least not so soon.
My holy unfornicating diety!
That Much? How did prices
Oh, wait! Here’s a five-smacker tag
on the backside of these thong-flops…
Maybe we’re make a pair of years out of them?
And still have the skeletons for inside stuff.
Now, the tenni-pumps:
Hey! I take back the terrible words I went
and wrote about God needing glasses:
Twelve bucks Fifty for these pieces of slime
that have served me near year
and are so thin at-sole
I must go to mass each half-block
to make sure I have not to use
the Duct Tape (Duck Tape, actually)
I stashed low in the photo bag because…
I know. And I know I know and you get that picture.
Next up: the 15-buck choice:
I’ve got snake boots – two pairs – gifts
but even then I had to go with them to the store
and try them on.
I could barely get the next nineteen beers untwisted
because of the emo-trauma of that experience.
Got an unworn pair of Bass Weejuns
and two worn pairs of same
but I unspect
the earlier two are from when
I had human feet.
And, oh, yes: formal wing tips and
WHAT! two sets of Florshimes?
(be that their spelling….I gotta clean closet
and if I’m smart move in there and let the shoes
take hold elsewhere.
Anyone know a way to get new skivvies?