stompin' on bricks

shoes don't fit feet made of bricks. i trudge store to store, tracking clay dust across the carpet and the most eager salesmen usher me straight out the door. what about commission? is it just an hourly wage these days? i feel discrimination in my bones. they express emotion: sad when it's going to rain; angry informs me of arthritis. they've been feeling like rain for months and i expect it any moment and should probably get my bricks inside before they become soaked and trail rust everywhere. i'm going to write a complaint about this mistreatment.

the missive forms in the weeks it takes to get home and bang up the steps to my apartment, which i discover half empty. i sink a few inches, stumble flailing in a cloud of dust and gaze down upon fleshy toes. testing them, i tiptoe to the icebox, remove a frozen pizza, fire up the oven and wait for the rain.