Shoes

I wish I didn't have to consign you to the bin, along with my scraps of paper featuring terrible band names. My trusty sneakers - you were the fourth generation, I believe - you are now used up. When the dust starts getting into the cracks and the longer of my legs breaks through the left sole, it is truly time. I could have framed you; I'm no longer that sentimental. Your replacements peek out from under my bed, doe-eyed somehow, and settled in by now - but still comparatively fresh. You and your kind are testament to my lack of money and imagination. But I don't particularly want 'Imelda' as a nickname, anyway. Thanks for your service. Thanks for dragging dirt around a few foreign places, and plenty of local ones. I kept you away from the bad stuff, I think, as I can't seem to remember the old stick-and-hose routine of excrement removal. Let's not end it on that note, though. I'm pretty sure I did a running jump and clicked my heels together once, and you were there too.