On Being Fourteen Years Old and Needing New Shoes by Stephen J. Golds

Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine, Stephen J. Golds

On Being Fourteen Years Old and Needing New Shoes

 

If I was having a shit time at home,

it never really felt as bad

if the sun was out,

burning everything.

 

When it rained,

the rain always seemed to try

its best to ruin me.

Destroy me.

 

The dirty water would seep

through the holes

in the soles

of my shoes and

my socks would absorb

the water like sponges.

 

I remember once

I put my foot on

a piece of cardboard and

drew a line around it

with a black marker pen,

cut it out and taped it

 

into my shoe,

it didn’t do anything.

The water still seeped in,

made the cardboard

a soggy mess and

it was useless

 

like

everything

else.

 

I asked my dad for a new pair shoes but

he just stared at my old shoes hanging

from my hands limply like two dead black baby pigs and

asked what the hell was wrong with those shoes.

I showed him the holes

in the worn smooth soles

 

and

 

he nodded and took them into the kitchen and closed the door.

When he came out and gave them back to me

I saw he had put black electrical tape over the holes.

I said thank you and

went up to my room,

threw the shoes against the wall and

laid on the floor listening to

the

television

blaring up

through

the floorboards.