Pedestrian
The salesman's shoulder and a silver shoe horn helped me climb
into a pair of red Buster Browns with black trim and laces,
plod around the JC Penney admiring my sublime
feet. I slept in those shoes, dreamed that I was going places.
First week of first grade I got a pair of black canvas Keds
with rubber soles and three parallel white stripes on each side.
I felt balanced, could grip the waxed floors with groovy tread
that left its mark. They never knew I was petrified
of slipping into view, just as scared of disappearing.
At recess I hid in the playground's concrete tunnels,
kicked rocks at the kids playing near the openings, clearing
my escape route, imagining myself running until
the scenery changed. It did. My shoes were different
in my teens, when I tried on sex and higher heels for size,
lost my head in the halls. Still I carried an inherent
need for groundedness, gave up dresses and skinny thighs
for a chance to plant my feet in cleats and take the track,
loved the crunch of spikes striking asphalt, flinging gravel
in my wake, scared of being caught, never looking back
to see what was behind me. Even now when I travel
I watch my feet, sure only that I need to keep moving,
wear neon sneakers to which Phidippides would pray,
live as though quickness were a certain way of proving
worth, like a firefly, whose rapid light protects and gives away.
Jennifer Wheelock, 2006
