Born from clipboard quotas,
the sweathopped shoes I bought on sale
are waiting for a thought,
on who the seamstress was and
if she went to bed
content the day my pair was sewn.
I wonder if she touched her daughter’s photograph,
before she cried herself to sleep.
Maybe blisters from the soles can later
be a slight reminder
of the tepid broth she had for lunch.
I shrug and close my heart:
there’s a limit for concerns.
A poem on shoes for Susi at toads.
December 9, 2016