Thursday, September 23, 2010

On A Thousandth-Folded Shoe

A man on the loo, aft’ an hour or two, nothing had come through. Though his back end chute had given no more than a toot, he’d found a fold in his boot. Said he on the seat, “You’d think a fold so neat pride of origami elite.” Then, with his big toe, he pushed it over just so, and the fold in the shoe did grow. After a second fold, too a sight to behold, the edges he slightly rolled. He continued this way, this strange new play, for more than half of the day. Numbered these folds in his shoe six hundred and two, and still onward they grew. And within a week, though his seat did reek, he’d folded a flawless bird’s beak. And though his cat lay dead, for it hadn’t been fed, he didn’t even think of his bed. But there that man died, because he was all bloated inside, and let that, child, be your guide.
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