The Many Shoes of Marty Smith
I remember her,
when we were very little,
walking so fast,
my sister and I
struggling
to keep up,
in those high heels,
clicking on the sidewalk,
not waiting for traffic lights,
leaving us far behind,
trying to catch up.
She could dance
in high heels,
even The Charleston.
Empires collapse, fortunes evaporate, and stocks nosedive into hell—but a deep sleep, a clean shit, and a laugh that shakes your skeleton remain the closest thing humanity has to real wealth.