My Dead Trainers
Should have done this months ago.
The decent thing: a respectful parting,
uttered meaningful words for your loyal service:
without doubt, above and beyond.
Faithful, in spite of my neglect
but I couldn’t find a way to discard you
that didn’t taste like betrayal.
I can’t accurately recall your age but it must be
at least a dozen years, perhaps as high as a score
since you turned this commoner into a Cindrella.
Without hyperbole we have walked together
(not jogged, never jogged,
we had too much respect for each other)
hundreds of miles, cycled the same
in sporadic bursts of energy when the scales
didn’t so much speak my weight as
spit it out in a pained, strained, strangled cough,
like a car exhaust backfiring.
We walked for pleasure and to escape pain,
the strict drumbeat of exercise and
measured stroll of remembrance.
Routes often dictated by moods or
the coin toss of an uncertain mind,
all part of the explorative nature of creativity and
you were always part of my best ideas.
You kissed my feet, made me complete
a partner in rhyme as we paced away
around the writer’s block.
Now the shock of parting must be faced.
I have worn you longer than I should.
Paraded you in public, past your best
no longer whole,
holes emerging in all our soles.
I won’t forget you, nor will I try.
Elton John had it wrong.
Sorry isn’t the hardest word,