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BARBARA F. LEFCOWITZ The SHOEMAKER He sews the wounds of worn shoes, props open their mouths with brass horns, sets them on a shelf where they wait to be claimed by their feet. Always a few are forgotten, languish for years in the leathery darkness. The shoemaker dusts them, makes sure their buckles shine, on cold nights he covers their skin to keep it from cracking, sometimes sings to them of heavenly shoes-- until his wife demands he bury them to make room for the wounded, the shoes that bring cash. In their mass grave the old shoes soon take root, their occasional stalks tough but easy enough to pull up should a missing foot happen past. But as far as the shoemaker knows not one has ever staked its claim. Ah, but the shoes. . . night and day they loudly lick and rub with their tongues not only each other but nearby bulbs, potato and turnip roots, tossed cups whose rims have not been licked for decades, teeth, spectacles, the cuffs of torn socks-- And the shoemaker sighs in his sleep knowing at best he can dream about the merry underlife of all his abandoned shoes. (To copy or translate this poem, please contact BARBARA F. LEFCOWITZ) TRANSLATOR and ILLUSTRATOR WANTED FOR THIS PAGE
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