These old shoes

they’ve felt the road

a cobbled path

the cold winds blowed

afore and aft

on a bridge I once trode.

 

A scuff here and there

from a trip down some stairs

and a hole in the sole

tells how long I did go.

 

The laces, so worn

a cobbler would scorn

and berate me

still, up hill and down

sometimes with a frown

you could see on my shoes’

tired faces.

 

A smile, I’d see

when I set those soles free

a dip in the pool

beats the races.

 

– Sandra Johnson, 6/26/21