My favourite boots, feeling worn

out underneath, a little tired but loved,

the cobblers

will always find a way to preserve

them for a while;

dropping them off at closing time

and with pair of bulk standard

trainers to sneak home in

standing by as replacement,

I got them to mend them once again.

Next day, the clock chiming Ten

in the market square,

I walked in to the shop

just in time to see

the cobbler ringing the till

and his fingers red from the pressure

of hammering nails into the underneath

of my much loved shoes, now in the possession

of a starched white shirt, dripping in

arrogance and a smug smile

on his wide gobbed face.

What’s happening with my shoes?

I asked slightly peeved; he seemed surprised

but conducted himself by holding

his anguish in,

“You bought them in the be mended sir,

I have now re-sold them…

 

Ian D. Hall 2017