Tuesday, January 31, 2006


I have an old pair of shoes. Thy are well worn and torn. My toes push through. There are holes in the soles and the heels are beyond repair, but I don't care. They fit and that's about the size of it.

Even though these shoes are out of style they've stood by me for many a mile. Win or lose, they are the shoes I choose. My shins and arches will agree, These beat and battered, tattered are apart of me.

As long as the last lasts they're the last shoes I'll ever buy.

I HAVE A T-shirt t ripped and ragged, This T has served me faithfully, I wear it everywhere everyday, And I don't care what people say, It's frayed and I'm afraid some drip will rip it off my back. If so I know he or she will simply lack my dedication and appreciation for this cotton creation of my sordid past. The printed message didn't last. It faded from the scene after many trips to the washing machine, But every stain to me recalls a memory of my gastronomy.

Here a smear of pizza slice. There a bit of pork fried rice. An ice cream cone, a chicken bone. A ham on rye embellished with hot pickle relish. If you will, a sour dill. Some hominy. Pastrominy. (Sic, sic, sic!) A bit of this. A bit of that. A blob of saturated fat. Whatever food I choose to chew. What ever stew. Whatever brew, Coffee, tea, What you see remember me and my worn and torn beloved T.


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