Footloose

Some days, Mr. Blobz walks around staring into the gutter. This is where most life ends up, on the journey from the pavement to the drain.

Sometimes, we leave traces here, clothing, condoms, beer bottles and shoes, before we’re broken down into constituent particles and washed out to sea. This fella left some of his footwear.

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Perhaps he was absconded, getting into a car, and in the scuffle, lost a shoe. And now he’s wearing cement shoes at the bottom of Duncan Dock.

Or perhaps, drunk, after exiting a nearby establishment, he careened against himself, and hopped away from his shadows on one leg, like a big human bunny.

Or, perhaps again, he met true love that night, and in the rush of ecstatic union, forgot that his Fairy Godfather would be turning his trusty sword back into a leaky catheter at midnight. And in the flurry, he lost a shoe.

And an old bag lady, with just a memory of him pressed against her heart,  is searching for it still, so that she can find her prince.

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