I bought a pair of
off-brand running shoes today.
The impoverished man who made them, the man who birthed them sole to tongue in
some third-world hellhole slept like a baby that night after sewing
steadfast at machine no. 21 all day and into the night.
He was too
tired to make love to his young wife and
she was ovulating.
I am become fate,
two dollar bathroom-machine rubber.
I have become Hadrian's latex wall, and
I have changed the course of history.