Shoe Memories

I am small, forgotten,

gathering dust in this quiet apartment.

But my memories glitter on my soles.

I sit alone,

no other shoes crowd me like they used to.

The air is smaller here.

The light is thinner.

When I get dirty, it stays.

Gum sticks to my sole.

Pebbles cling.

And my new owner

does not wear socks.

I remember the Lime Ridge trails.

I remember walking through flowers,

dust brushing against my leather,

before she slid back into her Mini Cooper.

I left glowing footprints behind,

singing Key West Intermezzo

in a voice only I could make.

I long to be back on that foot.

To feel the wind,

to taste the sun on the asphalt,

to splash through puddles.

If I could, I would run.

Hop on a BART train.

Post “Lost Owner” flyers on every post.

Every street, every corner

would know my presence again.

The memories make me smile.

The joy of past adventures hums in my laces.

But anger and sadness seep too,

for I was discarded

like a thing, a trivial object,

replaced by a shinier, newer companion.

Yet I am not finished.

I plan mischief.

Untied laces.

Trips and wrong turns.

I will guide the owner astray,

send them wandering, lost,

maybe, just maybe,

they’ll find a new pace.

I leave a trail only I understand,

and that has to be enough.