Shoe-horn

I am helping my mum
into her new Saucony trainers

that are black with white soles.
We have left the shop where

we bought them; without
a shoe-horn, she has a problem.

Kneeling before her, I draw at
segments of the cross-woven laces,

snug in their eyelets, spread the
collar of each shoe, smooth out the tongue.

I am helping my mum
into her new Saucony trainers;

without a shoe-horn,
she has a problem.

My thumb holds back the rear-tab,
nursing in her heel,

one after the other.
Each foot I cover

is a panther, a Porsche,
a night-sky

over a city of luminescent lights
that shall never fade or die.

7 comments

  1. ❤ I like the role reversal of you helping with her shoes – and that new Saucony trainers would usually be associated with someone fit enough to put them on their feet 🙂 Love it.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thanks, Dar, I knew you would appreciate the ironies. ❤ With each passing year, the realisation of how parent(s) can no longer be the way they used to be becomes increasingly acute.

      Like

  2. I’m touched by your gentle poem, especially the last line “
    over a city of luminescent lights
    that shall never fade or die.”

    This is an important reminder. It reminds me that certain things in life are not eternal, and they should be cherished when I still have the chance. Thanks for this. Much love ❤️

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thanks, dear friend, I’m happy you liked it. ❤

      Liked by 1 person

  3. Wow, Vera! That’s crazy cool. I am so familiar with putting on my mother’s shoes at this point. Your first flow was complete sense memory and then You jettisoned my brain and heart into another plane! I went back and reread a few times. Amazing. So nice to be back! Thank You and Happy New Year!!! ❤️

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you, Katy! ❤ ❤ ❤

      Liked by 1 person

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