Diane de Echeandia
These dirty, faded shoes
heels worn, holes where toes chafed,
cushioned me through
countless training miles and
(victorious) across finish lines.
Knee, now lacking cartilage,
robs me of running highs
on wooded trails, city sidewalks
through all seasons and weather--
rain, wind, heat and snow.
Gone--the thrill of competing,
the joy of winning.
Trash day. Decision time.
I approach dreaded garbage bin,
raise the lid, and peer into its smelly maw.
Isnīt it irreverent to abandon
beloved shoes with putrid garbage?
Canīt do it! Alternatives?
A homeless person?
A third-world country?
I slam closed the plastic lid,
still clutching my precious shoes.
Truck brakes screech.
The robotic arm hovers. Itīs time.
My chest aches. My palms are moist.
I lift the lid again and pause.
Noxious fumes assault my
nostrils. I toss my shoes into the bin
without looking back and walk away.
My days of sublime running--over.
Online, I search.
So many choices: shoes for walking,
biking, golfing, climbing. Decision
made, I pay and begin another search--
this time for golf lessons.