Poem 3

For sale, black leather

baby shoes,

worn, cracked, aged.

Twenty-five dollars,

found in a tourist shop

among patriotic towels,

candles and soaps,

all over-priced.

Forgotten by the buyer,

unknown by the feet

which wore them

so long ago.

Where is the man

whose mama carefully saved

to buy those shoes,

who lovingly tied them,

kissed his round face,

and held his hand

to steady his steps?

Where is the man

who loved his mama,

and smiled up at her eyes

and went on his way

in the black leather

baby shoes?


Eve Remillard


Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *