To That Man

Sneaking into his room when he was gone

And opening up the cardboard box

and suit-and-tie closet

Was what I used to do

When I was small.

I would stare at all the shoes.

There were so many of them,

All lined up,

Black and mahogany and sneakers.

The worn-out workshoes

With no tread on the bottom,

Instead, sanded flat by the gravel

and pavement,

And the shiny ones

(That he called wing tips)

Polished and proud next to

The ones with dried mud, car grease,

and dingy dirty laces.

I would put my feet in them,

One pair after another,

Clomp around the room,

And put them back carefully

So that he wouldn’t notice.

And daydream of being him

And filling them.