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He stands, somewhat disheveled and dirty alone on the curb, and I contemplate his shoes. Once, they were new, brightly gleaming brown polished leather perfectly formed, fitting snugly against the first owner’s feet. Pinching and creaking in protest, virgin leather strained against the fleshy foot that filled it and forced it to stretch and bend to shape itself to serve the original owner’s need. Years went by with constant wear ‘til no more protesting creaks were heard. Broken in and pliable, the leather lost its robust luster and just got left on the darkened closet floor. Eventually found, by someone who thought of them as new shoes, they were taken out and appreciated, for he never had real leather before and found rich pleasure in the comfortable easy fit. However, styles change and comfort becomes mundane for the fast moving trendy sort who seeks to keep up with the clamorous glamor of a world of easy disposable everything. Tossed aside once again, tried on by friend after friend in hopes of an owner to fit and to please, but now the years are starting to tell, and age has a smell that is likened to disease. Now on the curb, disheveled and dirty, I speak, and he coldly glares in my face. I offer a smile to break the ice and he measures me for clues, but at this price even he can rent Daddy’s old pair of shoes.
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