my dads shoes,
that old type,
brown leather,
scuffed heels,
the ones you can’t help but see
as naked without a blanket of dust.
they never see the day anymore,
but their miles stretch further than mine,
more mountains climbed,
more beaches pondered,
more faces alight with life. I know
they have lived more than I.
but every now and then
when the court calls my father in,
or someone important passes
they emerge from their personal
cardboard coffin under the bed
to be polished new once again.
those times I hear the creaking
cackle in every drawn step, and although
no one else can, I understand their words:
is this really the world in which
you choose to live?
where a pair of shoes
can have more life than you?
that old type,
brown leather,
scuffed heels,
the ones you can’t help but see
as naked without a blanket of dust.
they never see the day anymore,
but their miles stretch further than mine,
more mountains climbed,
more beaches pondered,
more faces alight with life. I know
they have lived more than I.
but every now and then
when the court calls my father in,
or someone important passes
they emerge from their personal
cardboard coffin under the bed
to be polished new once again.
those times I hear the creaking
cackle in every drawn step, and although
no one else can, I understand their words:
is this really the world in which
you choose to live?
where a pair of shoes
can have more life than you?
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