Wingtips

My wingtips slip across the sidewalk. I scuff the bottoms on cement. My feet scrape curbs, like a penned bull. I belong in hiking boots and sandals, not penny loafers. My toes and heels detest patterned dress shoes. I remember wearing my cleats and wrestling boots. My closet still has my trainers and construction boots. I wish to wear something else, right now. My soles crackle underfoot. The grains of the street sound my coming. The grit of the asphalt echoes in my ears My wingtips click like nine inch heels. I slip and scuff and wish to walk in different shoes. I lower my head and ignore my noise. My wingtips must be worn to the ground.