In Father's Shoes
Of course at three he also wobbled across the room,
and at four, five, six, the years quickened.
Now it's designer sneakers at a hundred a pair,
fifty bucks a foot.
But I no longer search for a missing twin;
my pair is now always where I left them.
Of course when I was three I'd send my father
on morning, before-work searches.
He'd never rudely wake me.
I heard him once in my room,
mumbling some curses.
He stood there in early morning light.
I kept my eyes closed,
as I faked peaceful breathing.
Soon I heard the front door lock,
and my feigned sleep turned real.
Came the time, I also pestered him for the finest leather shoes.
Now my newest shoes are in the closet, a snug and discounted pair.
Far in the back my father's shoes
are entombed in a shoe box reliquary.
Sometimes I behold them,
it's my own form of prayer
and a reverent processional of one across the living room floor
in the early mornings,
light but firm steps,
waking no one.
Copyright © 1997 by Richard Fein
Richard Fein lives and works in Brooklyn. His work hase been published in many E-zines and several print publications including Sulphur River Literary Review, Small Pond Kansas Quarterly, Blue Unicorn, Soundings East and Touchstone, among others. Richard's favorite ice cream is vanilla chocolate chip and his favorite knish is potato mushroom. He can be reached at bardbyte@idt.net
