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———

Help your­self, she said. Upstairs. Go on,

I’d sooner get rid. After all, she said,

how many shoes does a dead man need?

I found them in a box under his desk,

sorted them for pur­pose, style and fit.

I took his smart shoes, pol­ished and ready

to wear, a pair of well-worn train­ers, his

new slip­pers. The rest would go the hospice.

 

Avoid­ing any men­tion of fathers and footsteps,

I squeezed my squir­reled cache into

a car­rier bag and smug­gled it out to the car.

Top but­ton undone, black tie loosened,

when I came back in to join the family

she was tak­ing orders for another round of tea.

 

Michael Shann

www.michaelshann.com