chuck taylors by Cole Atkinsoni ain't exactly a wealthy man.
not quite fiscally flexible.
but i needs me
a new pair of sneakers.
mine got holes in the heels
and mud
and dirt
and city-grime
all caked into the soles.
so i climb into my rolling rust-bucket,
and the engine putters
like a sick dragon.
my poor car limps down the road
with a just-as-poor black man
sitting behind the wheel.
i pull up to the shoe store
in a puff of dust-smoke.
white shoe-man behind the counter
looks at me
a little more than funny.
i tells him,
"sir,
i need to procure
your cheapest sneakers."
shoe-man eying me,
he brings me to the back
in front of a shelf marked
clearance.
he pulls out a dog-eared box,
opens it up,
and sleeping inside
is a pair of chuck taylors,
holy in their complacency,
black as me.
i think i'm in love.
fighting back happy tears,
i ask the shoe-man,
"how much?
how much
for them glorious shoes?"
shoe-man,
all stony and stoic,
he says,
"ten dollars."
i dig down deep in my pockets
and pull out
a handful of pocket lint
and pocket air.
oh,
stupid poor me,
i done spent my money
on gas
getting here.
guess them chuck taylors
gotta wait till another day. 04/22/2011 Author's Note: My inner Hughes rearing its beautiful head. The man was a genius.
Posted on 05/03/2011 Copyright © 2024 Cole Atkinson
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