My Last Pair of New Shoes
There was a day when men and women could make a
living matching feet to shoes. They were magicians
with a shoe horn and a compliment and by the time
you left their store you felt sharp and set for a decade
and now they are a bookmark to Amazon on my tablet
with the opinions of people who would wear
shoe boxes if they saw them on a sports star.
I don't expect the idiot internet will even note an
old man buying his last pair of shoes. I used to
know my clerk, I used to hand him cash money. Now
I give promises online for anything I need and boxes
appear on the stoop and I don't know anybody's name.
So why even bother to dress in the morning? I do so
to honor the firefighters who will one day carry me out
feet first; old men are thoughtful that way. When
the undertaker lays me out, I imagine these soles will
still shine like a raja's, who never had to take a step out
of his palanquin lest the ground wound his blessed foot.
And yet, the poor bastard never had Uber Eats, did he?
Let the driver's leather absorb the punishment of dirt
and rain today, while I kick off my new shoes and enjoy
my Kung Pao Chicken. Perhaps I'll go out tomorrow,
or maybe the day after.
But probably not.
- © Tom Barlow 2020
Tom Barlow is an Ohio poet whose work has appeared in journals including The Stoneboat Literary Journal, Headline Poetry and Press, Voicemail Poetry, Live Nude Poems, Sonic Boom, Harbinger Asylum, Heron Clan, The Remington Review, and Your Daily Poem.
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