What Water Does

My shoes are ruined.

The left one has a stain,

something dark that won't come out,

and the right one is starting to separate

at the sole,

the stitching giving up,

the glue finally admitting defeat.

It was just rain.

Not dramatic rain,

not the kind that means anything,

just a walk from the parking lot

to the office

and I forgot,

or didn't think it would matter,

or thought I was fast enough

to outrun it.

I wasn't.

The socks are still damp.

I can feel them against my feet,

that cold grip,

that reminder

that fabric holds water

the way it holds everything else

you try to keep out.

There's no lesson here.

There's no moment

where I learn something

about resilience

or the inevitability of change.

There's just a pair of shoes

getting worse,

and wet sock marks on the hardwood

that won't disappear

until someone wipes them,

and the knowledge that next time

I'll probably still forget the umbrella,

still probably still walk anyway,

still probably still ruin

something else

that was fine before.

The shoes are in the corner

getting stiff as they dry.