which I never thought
to shine before,
the expensive leather
weathered and dull,
dog-chewed, salt-stained.
I am shining my shoes
that take me now
up unfamiliar stairs,
into new rooms
in which people only think
they know me,
or know they do not.
To structure the days,
to kill time,
I create small rituals
with pots and pans,
calming bedtime books,
saddle soap and brush.
And so I shine my shoes
that those who knew me,
should we meet,
will conclude
that I am doing fine.
My shoes will tell them
nothing’s changed
except for the better.
Old shoes, yes,
the same shoes, yes,
but never looking so good.
my fingers slick and stained,
wax like dried blood
thick under my nails,
so that having hit the road,
the wall, the skids,
I will not appear
to have hit bottom,
so that running or leaping or standing
dully still
in this dead skin
at least a part of me
will shine.