A time approaches
when my socks will sit in drawers
awaiting toes
that my knees won't bring me close to.
Distant feet
at the end of short legs,
they may as well be in China.
What then?
Barefoot in the park?
Or do I forgo my Robert Redford moment
and make a stick with a hook
catching up a black sock
like I once caught bright yellow ducks
at the street fair each September.
I don't want to ask for help.
And how would that help anyway?
Ah, feets don't fail me now.
I'm not immobile, but tap dancing?
Well, maybe a soft sand shuffle.
I pick up my socks and throw them to the wind.
Perhaps I should move on and get used
to the feel of softly shifting sands between my toes.
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