SHOE
By ERIKA BEAVER
The eyelet, the padding, the overlay.
The visible stitches on the toe cap.
Made in an assembly line in Pakistan.
Gossiping over curry on their break.
Or talking about Korea and the US.
While one makes the midsole and the outsole
The lace holding together the quarters
The tongue, the turf, the last, and the eyestay.
The factory, the people, all hard at work.
Till one sad day, at the shoe factory
In two thousand and twelve,
Twenty five people died in the flames.
Someone in the building across the street
Saw a brave young man help a little boy
Lifted him to the window to escape
Before he helped the third child, she kissed
Him on the cheek, her way of saying thanks’
Then he hoisted her up to the window
Finally his turn to climb out the window
His jacket flared up during his decent.
And air filled his pants, looking like he could fly
The lace hole, the toe, the color.
Many different prints and brands.
The label, the labor, the size, the shoe.
No comments:
Post a Comment