I’m wearing a new pair of Goody two-shoes. They’re three sizes too big. The man who sold them to me said they’re the footwear of majesty. He had no hands, a lazy eye, and a crown of thorns. He said I’d grow into them someday. My mother is a nun. My father, an evil clown. The shoes slide off when I walk into church, but become wetsuit tight when I cruise late-night through the bad part of town. The clergy compliments the stitching. Say seams so sophisticated had to have been sown by a Saint himself. The thugs think otherwise. Say the fake soles are swap meet cheap, and the tongue tells tales of travesties. On Sunday morning I’ll sing Hallelujah in the choir next to the Strongman’s son. On Saturday night I’ll sit on a seedy stoop smoking something illegal, sharing a 40 ounce with the Bearded Lady’s daughter.