Friday, July 14, 2017

An Old Pair of Shoes

by Jim Rapp

What binds me to you – makes me
blush to think I contemplated separation?
A world-class super glue, that's what –
a thousand dances danced in unison.

Worn, creased and rumpled, we.
We'll never know our youth again;
not you, the shoes, nor I, the man
who stands and walks in them.

Shineola's magic cannot hide
the water stains and grease drippings.
Bare threads, dangling where sole
and body meet, evoke the brevity of life.

Nor man nor ought has ever sought
more ardently for synchronicity;
you've shaped – enwrapped yourself –
according to the roles assigned to me.

Narrowly you missed the donor's box,
my weathered friend, but if . . . well . . .
no doubt you'd have served a new master
with the same fidelity you tendered me.

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