Hootenanny Magazine

Empty. Where to go now,
old black shoes, overworked,
shapeless, toes turned up,
creases that can’t be polished?
You look exhausted.
And for all that,
what wisdom do they hold,
your leaking soles?
Is this is? Is this it,
dirt polished over and over
and the polish smudged?
The young man who filled you
has passed away.
So little time for love.
His smell lingers,
odor solidified,
and caked like memory.
Your heels are worn out
on the inner edge only,
replaced and ground down again.
You can almost feel the feet pressing.
Insides are corroded.
How many stairs you’ve walked.

– Gregory Schaffer