Spring
has sprung and Summer's here
As in my closet I now peer.
Cotton short
sleeved shirts hang there,
But my shoe rack's nearly bare.
Last year's
flip flops bit the dust,
So now the choice is “want” or “must”.
I really
don't care for the style.
They're not built to trudge a mile.
Injection
rubber, blobs of glue,
How dare they call this thing a shoe!
Still,
I know that feet should breathe.
A flip flop's thong ones' toes doth cleave,
Senior
toe apart from mates
Resting on those rubber plates.
So here I am at Wal
Mart's door,
I make my way 'cross miles of floor
Until I spot them back
in “Shoes”,
Yellows, reds and greenish blues.
I thought to buy two pairs,
or three,
But holy smokes! Oh, my!! Oh, me!!!
These flip flops must be
made of gold
As on the price tag, big and bold,
Fifteen bucks for multi
colors,
Merely ten for all the others.
I'd sooner have a pair of sneaks
That
would last for many weeks.
I waver, waffle, think aloud,
My ranting starts
to draw a crowd.
Should I, must I, what to do?
My mind is in a roiling
stew.
The skinflint in me says “No way!”
The voice of reason begs me stay
And buy some, please, for phalanges' sake.
The choice is clear now that I
make.
A pair in each and every color,
All the brights and e'en the duller.
My wallet now is very light
As I march out with latex bright
On my barge
sized nine point fives
And know that I have saved toes' lives.
©
Frances Giles
"True Confessions and Mild Obsessions"
July 2, 2013 Column
Related Topics: People
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