I’ve decided
my shoes are to blame
for my lack of
forward motion.
I was always told
that when standing
on one’s feet
for long periods of time,
one should wear
sensible shoes.
And since I’ve discovered
that life as a whole
is much more like
retail than a desk-job,
sensible shoes seem
to be what’s needed.
But I stand here,
staring into my open closet door,
and am faced with
flowered Doc Martins;
burgundy velvet and
black and white marble-swirled
combat boots;
candy-apple red patent leather shoes
with more straps
than should be legal;
sandals that more resemble
the dregs of a rope factory
than footwear;
and I realize,
with the dawning horror
of one who suddenly understands
just how deep she’s gotten,
that I have not a
sensible pair in the lot.
Ordinarily, this wouldn’t bother me.
But someone decided
that open-toed shoes --
no matter how comfortable they are --
were a hazard in the Real World,
you can too easily
slip out of slip-ons,
and patterned shoes?
We won’t even go there.
Which leaves me with
burgundy velvet --
texture? You jest! --
and candy-apple red.
Forgetting the obvious
problem of shade --
have you
ever tried
to match that shade of red?
It can’t be done --
there’s the dilemma of straps.
I’m not a morning person,
so getting up earlier
is out of the question,
but if I actually took
the time to buckle
all those straps,
I wouldn’t get where I was going
until round about noon.
And
not buckling the straps
would put me back
at slip-ons. . .
It’s a vicious cycle.
I’d almost decided
it was too much trouble
and I’d just go without, but. . .
no shirt
no shoes
no service.
(It’s right up there
with no pets,
but
that’s a different
cookie all together)
So, if you need me,
I’ll just be standing here
barefoot in my closet,
because my nonsensible shoes
are all too shocking
to be seen in public.