i’ve saved all my old shoes. each
pair has a story to tell. some with
worn out soles. my socks would
stay wet all day if i wore them in
the rain. others i never wore except
for funerals and weddings. my feet
have been a size ten and a half since i
was a boy. if my shoes could talk,
they’d share a million miles of
memories. i can’t forget david, he
had polio and always wore one shoe
bigger than the other. i like seeing
him in his underwear even when he
told me not to look. i wore tennis
shoes when i first humped my girl
friend’s leg. i never learned how to play
tennis. arthur ashe wore adidas. i’m
not sure when i got my first nikes.
probably when i started sucking
dick. decades later i’m wearing vans,
usually black or white ones. i heard of
a 14 year old boy being murdered
over some high-end sneakers. i
never murdered anyone. when my
number is called, don’t bury me with
my boots on, bury me in a nice pair of
vans. chukka boots held me upright
when i was drunk. i’d sway back and
forth like waves in a hurricane but
i always made it home safe without
falling on my ass. not sure where my
scars come from. stoners wore
chukka boots. they cost the same as
an ounce of good weed. i never had
cowboy boots. i like cowboys. those
with a pair of nice boots, a nice hat,
and hung like a horse. i’ve walked
through some deep muddy waters. i
use old english oil for a good shine.
buzfree poetry 