I am ordering a pair of shoes.

They are white

And pink

And perfect.

I love them.

Just seeing them through my phone screen excites me.

Thinking about all the faces that will see and love these shoes.

All the places these shoes will take me.

They’ll last through the seasons.

They’ll get wet

And snowy

And dirty

And probably stinky.

They’ll hold some happy feet,

And some sad feet too.

They’ll hold freshly painted toes,

Stubbed toes,

Funny looking sausage toes,

They’ll hold my toes.

They’ll see some mismatched socks,

And maybe if I’m running late,

No socks at all.

They’ll feel the warm gravel on summer nights.

They’ll feel the squishy-swampy spring grass.

They’ll know the crunch of of orange fall leaves.

They’ll probably slip on winter ice,

Because after all,

They are on my feet.

These shoes will watch me become someone newer,


And different.

And they’ll sometimes see me wish that I could go back to my older,


And less different self.

These shoes will carry me,

And I will carry them.

I see them staring back at me on my hand held screen,

Not even aware of their potential.

I add them to my cart,

And fill out the credit card information.

But there is one last step.

One last box.

One last check mark before I embark on my “sole” filled adventure.

It stares back at me and reads,

“I am not a robot.”

I check the box,

Because I know I am not.

Because robots

Don’t wear shoes.

2 thoughts on “stoboR

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