A child’s fingers tying canvas shoelaces.
Tentative steps out the door,
Burdened with books,
Fraught with anxiety,
A soldier’s fingers tying bootlaces.
The smell of polish before morning parade.
In the service of the nation,
Orders are barked, and followed.
With resentment, not pride.
An adult’s fingers tying Doc Martens.
The frantic push through carriage doors,
“Mind the gap!” is exhorted.
Papers shuffled, phones answered.
Mondays hated, Fridays awaited.
A father’s fingers tying his child’s laces.
The morning commute crawls along.
Stress builds, tempers fray.
Model nuclear family?
It’s a myth.
The mortician’s fingers now tie his laces.
Mournful faces file past,
The resplendence of his Sunday best,
The endless slumber in oak pine cedar.
It comes full circle.