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Shoeshine
shoeshine, shoeshine, he said, so i sat on his homemade soapbox,
extending my right foot forward, and his hands went to work like
they were heirs to brancusi, moving in delicate circles, soothing
the material’s achings, the accidental kick, the wear and tear of
everyday weather, the ramifications of daily living, running the
smooth towel across their geography like a jeweler, my shoes
glittering in the crisp autumnal light of the city, like they were
beacons protecting me from the grasping hands of the pickpocket’s
hard luck story, the leer of the street kid demanding my wallet,
the
gang cornering me into oblivion on a walk on the wrong side
after
midnight, i was safe in the cocoon of my shined shoes from
any
disturbance threatening to rattle my timbers, moving lightly
along broadway, like a gentleman with an appointment with a
success story,
when every surface of the city was turned by the
lathe of the
immigrants’ aspirations, making this city gleam under
the lamps of
gas light, when the avenues were consumed by the
bustle of people
moving through the tumult graced with the casual
elegance of satin,
silk hose, a hat tipped in the appropriate direction.
Bruce Weber
The poem was also published in
Poetic Justice
(Bruce Weber, New York: Ikon, 2004).
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