My shoes I've had as long as I can remember.
Five dollars at a garage sale,
good quality for the price.
Made of fabric that used to be black
but has been leeched away to a spotty grey
in which I sometimes see my reflection
when I'm looking another way.
My shoes are tied up with bits of twine and safety pins
laces abandoned them long ago.
Ragged and dirty, the twine binds my shoes tight to my feet
a welcome straight-jacket for my toes.
While the pins silence my shoes' outspoken tongues
Stabbing down through the tough flesh.
All these needles in my voodoo shoes.
My shoes have been crying, I can tell
The eyelets are a watery pink
Tear stains all down the sides.
They hate the running, they hate the rain
They're tired and cold and long overdue for rest
So on the worst of nights I'll zip them up inside my jacket,
and hug them close to my heart.
My shoes take me where ever I go
But I don't blame them for where I end up.
In heaven I'll be running barefoot
and my shoes will retire to God's closet.