The Sneaker

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A modern fable in verse. Wise Monkey Wrought scroll N.004, "The Sneaker." The sneaker was white on Monday morning. It left the house at ten past eight. The ground was already outside. It stepped out white, and meant to stay. It took the kerb the careful way. Each puddle was approached, inspected, and, with some courtesy, rejected. At noon it sat beneath the chair. The clean white toe received its share. It gathered crumbs like quiet rent, a tax on where the morning went. The white held on till half past three. The owner checked it, twice, with glee. The toe cap shone, as clean as a plate. The streak, it seemed, would run till late. The long way home lay through the park, the ground a veteran of the dark. A child ran by. The footing slipped. The toe went down. The toe was gripped. The owner stopped beneath a lamp. The white had turned a shade of damp. The brown was even, toe to heel. Nobody asked how it would feel. The sneaker kept a clean record until the park. Every cloud has a silver lining. Every park has a puddle.