The Sneaker

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A modern fable in verse. Wise Monkey Wrought scroll N.004, "The Sneaker." A sneaker, white as morning frost, stepped out as if the world were lost. It traced the pavement, set apart, an unmarked sole, an unmarked heart. It moved through puddles, bent them wide, the common grime refused, denied. Each step was placed with careful weight, the street held back, the stain could wait. At noon it rested, tucked below the table's edge, the careful show. It gathered crumbs like quiet rent, a tax on where the morning went. The afternoon drew out the same, around the drain, along the claim. The white held on, the laces clean, the owner proud of what was seen. Then evening sent the walk through park, where soil keeps nothing for the dark. A child ran past, the footing slipped, the ground recalled what clean feet skipped. The owner stopped beneath the sun and saw the day was overrun. The white now brown from heel to toe, undone by feet too young to know. The ground was never trying. That's why it always wins.