I don’t trust white feet.
If they haven’t seen the sun,
how could they ever walk in my shoes?
Or pretend to.
Feet in robes?
Think flip-flops—
hardly up to the task,
if you ask me.
Blindfolded,
they go where they’re told,
peeking only at day’s end,
no longer pretending
they don’t smell,
or that they’re a size smaller, larger,
girl, boy.
Brown, cracked,
leather stretched over Goodyear soles—
those will give you miles
if you remember to rebalance, realign.
But who has time?
I don’t trust white feet.
BB Grey--musings 
Leave a reply to bb grey Cancel reply