Flip-flops make you fly. Simple tires for our toes, their rubber works hard to keep the earth from our touch. They always fail. Built for the heat, their no stranger to sun and sweat. They smell asphalt first. They get left behind, they loose their partners, they get worn out, but still they’re down for a journey. They don’t have a choice. I bet they sleep hard and dream big.
Black, green, blue and wet they taste it all. The dogshit, the gum, the cigarette butts, the street. The sand, the mud, the ocean, the mountain, the breeze. They know each place better than our memories could ever recall. They pass the bums, the vendors, and the gypsies but they are all too shy to offer up any change. They stay the same and roll on by, never, ever, looking back. Humble, comfortable and generous, they offer the skin of our feet the better view. They just don’t know any better.
But in the scheme of it all they aren’t human. They are our possessions. They are our sailboats and birds. We feed them nothing, and leave them on the floor. If they breakdown we exchange them for younger models with prettier tags. No “thank yous” no “goodbyes” no handshake. They go in the garbage with our souls stained on their back. Ours and ours forever, they’ll never fit anywhere the same.
The best never cost more than $5. The dividends are insane and the stories, they’ll never see the garbage. I remember each pair.