Sometimes, my only human contact on the lonely toepath is
with a man – by which I mean a proper man; a real man – not like me! Or,
more accurately, I have contact with his footwear.
This stranger, for example, kindly stops his jog along the
towpath in order to give me a taste of his running sneakers. Like women, he
doesn’t talk to me, since I am beneath him.
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| A man, a stranger, jogs towards me |
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| His sneakered footsteps get ever louder as they approach my humble, confined head |
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| Pathetically (because I am a non-man) I'm hoping and praying the real man will stop in front of me |
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| He does, and I am grateful, as I could do with the company! |
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| Without saying anything, the man stretches forth his his left sneakered foot towards my menial mouth |
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| I kiss it, of course, as befits a slave-man showing proper respect for a real man; a free man! |
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| The master-sir switches feet in front of my face - several times |
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| I kiss, and inhale, the outer aroma of his manly running sneaker |
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| Again, he switches feet |
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| My humbling view of the real man's SHOES and SOCKS as I kiss his feet |
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| The SHOES and SOCKS of a god! |
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| Then, all too soon for my humble liking, the SHOES and SOCKS turn their backs on me to leave |
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| I am left staring in awe at the man's SHOE SOLES! |
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| I dare not look up at his manly calf muscles, since I am just a slave! |
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| And man slaves must show proper respect for their man masters |
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| Although he is a stranger, and I shall likely never see him again, right now this MAN is my MASTER! |
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| For he is better than me... |
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| ...and I have been obliged to kiss his feet and admire his SOCKS! |