My Shoes

My shoes,

The tarmac mocks them.

One pair smiles and slaps it.

Another succumbs to its allure.

Its allure—the delight of motorists.

Its allure—their own despair.

They wear away in my enchantment;

My enchantment with its allure.

My shoes,

They call to mind my wife before a mirror.

Daily, she goes to it;

It stares at her sans remonstrance.

She looks at it more than that;

She admires it more than she does me.

I cringe to break it.

Oh I could break her thereby!

But she would run into my arms;

This I yearn to cultivate.

I should break it too soon.

My shoes,

Who can put them on but me?

My shoes—the tarmac.

My wife—the mirror.

Me—my shoes.

My shoes,

We should be on too soon.

We should be on too soon,

My shoes.