The boots kept the road in shape.
They were big and brown, and probably leather, and they kept the road from slipping away. They kept the road minding itself, kept it under their soles.
There was dust on the boots. There was dust on the road, so of course, as it goes, there was dust on the boots. There was mud on the boots, but not from the road, from a puddle the boots had wandered into, as they went plod, plod, plodding along.
And there was dust and mud and dirt on the pants from where the hems dragged along the top of the boots after every step, all the way up to wherever the dust decided to settle. Sort of like a treeline, sort of like a mountain range, were the ridges of dirt on the fabric. Stiff fabric, thick dust, just like the boots’ stiff upper lips, if they had any mouths.
The pants pockets were crowded with grit. A fine word, grit, actual bits of the world, not so tiny and fine as dust, but fine nonetheless. The pockets needed a good turn-out. The grit needed to return to the road, but for now, they’d just have to stick together.
Sometimes, the corner of the jacket would get caught up in the pants pockets, but then it would need to leave the conversation only to swing by again later. There was so much work to be done, outside of the pockets, outside in the air. The jacket was dusty too, and woven of what it liked to say was cotton but was much more filth than that.
Never to be forgotten was the kerchief tied around at the jacket collar. Sometimes it was the only one keeping the whole operation together, breathing hot breath down the metaphorical necks. The kerchief was imposing. The kerchief was scary; it just had that general air.
The shirt hadn’t been heard from in weeks, not since the jacket was buttoned.
The hat should have been the brains, but in all honesty, it was rather stupid, and more of a trophy member of the group than one that actually carried its own weight. It sat there and looked pretty and kept the rain off.
The dust was an important member of the group. The whole arrangement agreed to that, except the boots, and by the time the thought of the dust’s importance had been relayed all the way up to the hat, the conversation had moved on to another subject, another spot on the road — and even more dust. So excepting the boots and the hat, the clothing thought the dust was important too, even just to keep it happy, and stop it from becoming sad and turning into mud.
If they were to tell the truth, the boots had seen quite enough of the world. They’d seen quite enough of the dust, at any rate. Sometimes the other clothes would wonder about the origins of the dust, if the dust had been animals or cities or stars, but to the boots, dust was dust was dust was dust. Dust wasn’t the world, the world was the world, and they were sick of the whole shebang, and now focused only on the road.
“Hey!” a lizard exclaimed, scurrying along beside the boots. “Where’re you going?”
“On,” replied the boots.
“On what?”
“On the road.”
“On where?”
“Anywhere.”
“Sounds boring.” The lizard ran away into the sunny afternoon.
And they kept on. The road didn’t change much, but then again, it never did.
A crow flapped out of the sky and landed on the jacket’s shoulder.
“Where’re you going?” it squawked.
“Places, that’s what,” said the jacket. “Places, for sure.”
“What would you call a place?”
“Somewhere with more jackets, and fewer fields.”
“Good luck getting to your place, but I like the fields fine.” The crow flew away.
A dog woke up from the side of the road when it heard the boots stomp by. It ran up to the clothes.
“What’s going on?” it asked the dust. “Where’re you going?”
“Somewhere with people,” answered the dust. “Somewhere with people.”
“I like people.” The dog wagged and settled into a trot. “Can I come too?”
“I don’t see why not. They’re letting me come, you can too, I’m sure.”
“Hooray!” barked the dog, and it kept up.
The clothing went walking.
And they would keep on walking and walking until they finally found somebody to put them on.
They were big and brown, and probably leather, and they kept the road from slipping away. They kept the road minding itself, kept it under their soles.
There was dust on the boots. There was dust on the road, so of course, as it goes, there was dust on the boots. There was mud on the boots, but not from the road, from a puddle the boots had wandered into, as they went plod, plod, plodding along.
And there was dust and mud and dirt on the pants from where the hems dragged along the top of the boots after every step, all the way up to wherever the dust decided to settle. Sort of like a treeline, sort of like a mountain range, were the ridges of dirt on the fabric. Stiff fabric, thick dust, just like the boots’ stiff upper lips, if they had any mouths.
The pants pockets were crowded with grit. A fine word, grit, actual bits of the world, not so tiny and fine as dust, but fine nonetheless. The pockets needed a good turn-out. The grit needed to return to the road, but for now, they’d just have to stick together.
Sometimes, the corner of the jacket would get caught up in the pants pockets, but then it would need to leave the conversation only to swing by again later. There was so much work to be done, outside of the pockets, outside in the air. The jacket was dusty too, and woven of what it liked to say was cotton but was much more filth than that.
Never to be forgotten was the kerchief tied around at the jacket collar. Sometimes it was the only one keeping the whole operation together, breathing hot breath down the metaphorical necks. The kerchief was imposing. The kerchief was scary; it just had that general air.
The shirt hadn’t been heard from in weeks, not since the jacket was buttoned.
The hat should have been the brains, but in all honesty, it was rather stupid, and more of a trophy member of the group than one that actually carried its own weight. It sat there and looked pretty and kept the rain off.
The dust was an important member of the group. The whole arrangement agreed to that, except the boots, and by the time the thought of the dust’s importance had been relayed all the way up to the hat, the conversation had moved on to another subject, another spot on the road — and even more dust. So excepting the boots and the hat, the clothing thought the dust was important too, even just to keep it happy, and stop it from becoming sad and turning into mud.
If they were to tell the truth, the boots had seen quite enough of the world. They’d seen quite enough of the dust, at any rate. Sometimes the other clothes would wonder about the origins of the dust, if the dust had been animals or cities or stars, but to the boots, dust was dust was dust was dust. Dust wasn’t the world, the world was the world, and they were sick of the whole shebang, and now focused only on the road.
“Hey!” a lizard exclaimed, scurrying along beside the boots. “Where’re you going?”
“On,” replied the boots.
“On what?”
“On the road.”
“On where?”
“Anywhere.”
“Sounds boring.” The lizard ran away into the sunny afternoon.
And they kept on. The road didn’t change much, but then again, it never did.
A crow flapped out of the sky and landed on the jacket’s shoulder.
“Where’re you going?” it squawked.
“Places, that’s what,” said the jacket. “Places, for sure.”
“What would you call a place?”
“Somewhere with more jackets, and fewer fields.”
“Good luck getting to your place, but I like the fields fine.” The crow flew away.
A dog woke up from the side of the road when it heard the boots stomp by. It ran up to the clothes.
“What’s going on?” it asked the dust. “Where’re you going?”
“Somewhere with people,” answered the dust. “Somewhere with people.”
“I like people.” The dog wagged and settled into a trot. “Can I come too?”
“I don’t see why not. They’re letting me come, you can too, I’m sure.”
“Hooray!” barked the dog, and it kept up.
The clothing went walking.
And they would keep on walking and walking until they finally found somebody to put them on.