Happy Sad Foot

The sign turns slowly but determinedly, on one side showing a wounded foot stumbling on crutches; on the other side revealing a happy foot now able to wear sneakers on his own feet.  Why, where, how?  The Foot Clinic on Sunset Boulevard, of course; right next to the Comfort Inn (how auspicious).  Every time I'm stopped at the light I'm mesmerized by the sign, which telegraphs sorrow and relief in evenly alternating amounts to the tune of a he-loves-me, he-loves-me-not daisy pulling.  Is it an oracle, a promise, a humorous quip?  Why does he need crutches if only his big toe, sitting atop his "head," is broken?  When he finally is able to don shoes, why does he simultaneously think in terms of a pickup game of basketball and a white-glove cocktail occasion?  If the foot could speak, would he belt out "Amazing Grace"?  Was he once lost, and now is found?  Naturally.  No foot opens his mouth that wide for anything less.