The Wrong Pair of Shoes

 

The Wrong Pair of Shoes

My mom’s friend could turn herself into a wheel,

a peacock in repose,

an eagle,

or a corpse.

All at her own will.

Yet, she couldn’t resist Turkish Delight with walnuts.

She would eat the whole box at one sitting.

She would then eat apples for a week, 

so that she could fit into her clothes.

She always wore silk, even at home.

Her mother was a fashion designer.

When I was at school, we spent a week in a factory.

It would be good for us, they said.

They gave me a job to do and I did it well.

I wrote numbers on some engine parts,

so that they could be paired later.

Numbers went from one to thirty

and then back to one again.

I saw those numbers in my dreams later at night.

I promised myself I would study hard

so that I never had to see those numbers again in my life.

There is a picture by Jean Francois Millet I once saw.

A girl sitting in the forest.

A basket of fish in front of her.

Her dreamy eyes staring into the distance.

Not really here, or now.

I believe the picture was called The Fishmonger,

The art critic commented on her shoes.

They were good quality shoes he said.

And he wondered why she stared so longingly into the distance 

with those shoes on.

A Serbian proverb says you should look at a man’s shoes

before you let him into your home.

I wonder what you think.

What sort of shoes would a man need to wear

for you to slam the door in his face?

GloPoWriMo Day 21 - write a poem in which you first recall someone you used to know closely but are no longer in touch with, then a job you used to have but no longer do, and then a piece of art that you saw once and that has stuck with you over time