The Shoe Tender
My children were born with round feet,
toes small as pebbles, no need
for shoes. Now they kick them aside
at the front door. I line them up until
each year, pairs discarded like skins
become others. Not halfway through my tenure
I count thirty or more gone. If I kept them
I could build a trail of worn soles
and tangled laces down the block
we walk each day to school.
I could pretend the children had just
gone barefoot and were still mine;
but I do not keep them. The shoes disappear
with the years.
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Nicole Docimo is a writer, artist, and local history archivist. She lives in Boulder, Colorado with her husband and two young children.
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Stone Poetry Quarterly 