Dead Man's Shoes

Well the rain became snow. I've gotten quite tired of bringing multiple pairs of socks in my backpack to work, so I trudged to the Salvation Army near the bus stop at 89th and bought a dead guy's shoes. Frankenstein shoes, not steel-toed, though. And black, not brown, because anyone from the south side of Chicago (or ALL of Chicago if you are Polish)can only wear white socks and black dress shoes. Well, forget the hell of the day, sleet like hatpins, yet I trudged along, happy with the shoes. No doubt the previous owner was a ghost, the shoes beneath a rack of jackets and slacks all the same size. We die and our identities become public domain, our clothes go to the thrift shop. When I got off the bus tonight, I did a Sgt. Rock and just plowed through everything, my feet never once getting wet. Walked through an empty lot that used to be a Citgo station, just straight through the biggest piles of slush and felt pretty happy about my purchase. But I still feel like Frank Rock in the book cover, only its not a war, its the winter I want to get out of...Wayne