contact me at

Friday, December 9, 2011



by Angela C. Orlando

The discarded shoes lay on the hard wood floor,
As an obstacle --
Something new to trip over,
As an invitation --
Something for the puppy to chew.

Cool shoes are named --
These are called Slimers,
Like Dr. Seuss' Oobleck,
Does slime ooze out with every step?

Slimers are light weigh,
Made of black canvas in a criss-cross weave --
So much like a net --
Add a pole and go catch a fish.

The trim is bright, neon green,
Like Kryptonite,
Or radioactive slime.

The heels are black leather,
To showcase a green letter "S" --
Which doesn't stand for simple, suave or sophisticated.

A green rubber rim encircles each shoe,
With green rubber soles --
Once upon a time, a wild pattern of tread graced the surface,
The soles are now bare --
As bald as a man on his 80th birthday.

Each Slimer has a green tongue,
That presently slants to one side,
So tired and weary --
Perhaps they are thirsty,
Would a sip of water bring them back to life?

On the right side of the right shoe,
And on the left side of the left shoe,
There is a large plastic blob --
Not a circle or an oval,
Just a big, green blob,
Which glows in the dark --
It's why kids beg for Slimers,
And parents shell out $60 to buy them.

Inside the shoes are dark and damp,
Hot feet have been here --
The insoles display an impression of a foot -
Revealing that the big toes pushes against the edge,
Declaring this child's need for new shoes.

On the tip of each shoe is a large hole,
Where each big toe is trying to escape,
It's like a billboard advertisement --
Mom, buy me new shoes now!

If the holes grow any bigger, they would form a sort of mouth,
Open up and tell the tales of what these shoes have seen,
And where they have been,
And what they have stepped in,
And whatever else a shoe would say if a shoe could talk?.

These Slimers smell of boy stink,
Sweaty feet,
Hard exercise in gym class,
Roughhousing out on the playground.

They make a slapping sound when the wearer walks,
Or thuds when he runs,
Or squeaks when they are wet --
They make absolutely no sound when not in use.

So, the Slimers now lay forgotten on the living room floor,
Where they landed after being kicked off--
But soon the TV show will end,
And the child will slip back into his shoes.

Oh, the places they will go,
The journeys they will make,
Through grass, mud, mulch snow and more,
For wetter and drier,
For better and worse,
Look out and beware,
Here comes a boy in his Slimers.

Revised December, 2011

No comments:

Post a Comment