The Shoes Poem by John Ngirachu

The Shoes



Were nothing you would want
Ordinary black, soiled, unaltered,
unpolished, unmended,
but on its way there.
But they were in slippers,
some of them, none you would wear.
They were sad, all of them,
and rushed into the small room there,
to look and then to weep,
to see a memory to keep.
Of the old man in his sleep
so suddenly put in at Nguyuni
on the bend in the tarmac,
the twin holes in the back.
When Zhivago came out,
in white smock and loud talk,
the shoes went away,
as swift, as loud
as silent as the old man went

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