how hard it had become to find
the ones to stitch the leather I
must have asked him about the
big free-arm machine standing
idle at the rear
he said my boss he comes in when I ask him but
these days made a sound between a
squeak and a phht nobody wants the mending
and truth the shoes won’t take it
works the sole too flimsy for so long
dear to my heart Kerri - sole's lament ... bring back the craft of wearing
ReplyDeleteJeffree I am broken-hearted to say the cobbler in this poem has closed his doors. I feel I must sit outside his old store darning socks in protest. Xx
ReplyDeleteLovely poem. Immortal.
ReplyDelete