Every afternoon, an hour or so after the dog starts picketing my office, sighing in the doorway and nudging my hand off the computer mouse, I put on my walking shoes. It drives her crazy how long I take getting ready. I’ve got to put on the shoes and sweatshirt, find my glasses, lock the doors, get my keys, my phone, my handkerchief, two poop bags, and her leash. Hesitate. Do I have it all? Have I left something plugged in or turned on? By then, she’s howling at me and jumping up and down. I hook on her leash. She grabs it, shakes it as if to kill it, and runs to the door. Extending the anguish, I insist she sit and chill for a minute. Then . . . okay, let’s go!
We walk on paved and graveled roads and grassy trails through the woods here in South Beach. Sun, rain or snow, we go. It’s hard on the feet, hard on the shoes. I have just worn out another pair. In gratitude, I wrote this poem.
ODE TO SHOES
Drying on the hearth, these twenty-dollar
boots from Big 5 Sporting Goods
have holes among the waffle treads
that let my socks get wet.
The rubber toes are falling off.
Worn brown laces won’t stay tied.
They sacrificed themselves to guard
my tender white and helpless feet.
My puppy has her leather pads,
soft fur thick between the toes,
nails that grip the graveled earth.
Puzzled, she watches me grab my shoes
to walk through rocks and branches, mud,
newts and salamander guts
Oh, praise these battered hiking boots.
We’ve got a couple miles left.
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