chuck taylors

i ain't exactly a wealthy man.
not really fiscally flexible.
but i needs me
a new pair of sneakers.

mine got holes in the heels
and mud
and dirt
and city-grime
all caked into the soles.

so i climb into my rolling rust-bucket,
and the engine putters
like a sick dragon.
my poor car limps down the road
with a just-as-poor black man
sitting behind the wheel.

i pull up to the shoe store
in a puff of dust-smoke.
white shoe-man behind the counter
looks at me
a little more than funny.

i tells him,
"sir,
i need to procure
your cheapest sneakers."

shoe-man eying me,
he brings me to the back
in front of a shelf marked
clearance.

he pulls out a dog-eared box,
opens it up,
and sleeping inside
is a pair of chuck taylors,
holy in their complacency,
black as me.

i think i'm in love.

fighting back happy tears,
i ask the shoe-man,
"how much?
how much
for them glorious shoes?"

shoe-man,
all stony and stoic,
he says,
"ten dollars."

i dig down deep in my pockets
and pull out
a handful of pocket lint
and pocket air.

oh,
stupid poor me,
i done spent my money
on gas
getting here.

guess them chuck taylors
gotta wait till another day.