Growing old means growing out of old shoes.
They live humble lives from their tissue-lined wombs to the darkness of memory
Their duties die young.
And in their wake, fresh generations bring new styles. New comforts.
I spied the future on a wooden shelf.
A lace less brother close at hand bid me no mind.
Simple brown body on simple rubber wings.
It knew my soul before it felt the curves of my foot.
We danced in different sizes, styles and colors.
We two stepped to reflections, swing danced to sales pitches, and settled on jazz.
I wore them out.
The ride home was paid in skin and scabs.
New shoes are not easily trained.
Buying them doesn’t make them yours.
Trust is earned.
Every good pair knows that.
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