My Old Shabby Shoes | Poetry

Sometimes when I visit
the supermarket,
I see the big mirrors
reflect my old shabby shoes,
perfectly covered in a layer of dust.

I step into the elevator,
I see the reflection of my shoes
on its translucent glass
side-by-side.
It moves higher, and higher
and higher,
it gets clearer, and clearer
and clearer,
that my shoes are getting
older, and older
and older.

I head straight to the section
filled with shoes.
It never fails to amaze me.
I wonder if you wonder too,
how many pairs stacked
in the room?
Sparkling light
to make it feel like day
even though it is already night.

I grab a pair, check its size.
39? Do you have 35? I ask.
The answer: no, we’ve run out of stock.
Oh, you see I never seem to find
a pair that fits just fine.

Sometimes when I visit
the supermarket,
I see the big mirrors
reflect my old shabby shoes,
perfectly covered in a layer of dust.

Against my old pair,
all the news ones –
each one of them looks
strikingly good,
even if I know they’re not.

It makes me a little sad
thinking that my shoes has gotten
shabbier and bad.
Oh! I remember,
it was once new too,
perfectly polished,
unknown to the road,
unknown to its owner,
my new pair of shoes.

So I know
all of the news ones must
one day become old and shabby too,
somebody else’s old shabby shoes.

Sometimes when I visit
the supermarket,
I see the big mirrors
reflect my old shabby shoes,
perfectly covered in a layer of dust.

I think my shoes are at the
wrong place,
in my shoe rack they look
perfectly good to me,
as I step in
to conquer the streets
in my old shabby shoes.

Sometimes when I visit
the supermarket,
I see the big mirrors
reflect my old shabby shoes,
my old shabby shoes.

I do, I always notice my shoes most of the time I visit the supermarket. It always feels old, even if it is not.