Poetry

I always think of my father
when I polish my shoes.
I see him,with his good shoes,
the brown ones,placed on the table,
on paper,an irish press,given
by my mother.

The brushes out,one to polish,
one to shine. First the brown polish applied,
like wax,slowly and evenly,
the left hand within the shoe to swell it,
like an anvil, carried out in memory,
the right hand driving the brush.
Thelaces out so the tongue too will shine.
First one brush entering crevices,
between the leather and the soles or heels.

then tea,and when the kettles done,
the shining brush,the same holding,but
the movements more swift and decided
and purposeful,like the movement of a train,
his singing ' o what a beautiful morning', from Oklahoma,
and the shine, a glare, now ready for the next morning.
His concluding the song and followed with
'theres no business like showbusiness'.

When i brush my shoes, I remember the song,
and see the shine, coming to the fore,
on my own brown shoes.