Every morning i hear
The familiar sound of him
Dropping his shoes
Angling them to get in
And start his day
What would they say...those shoes?
I don't like being dropped everyday
You're going to wear me anyway
Be nice to me
Shine and place me gently
I take you from here to there
Is there not respect anywhere?
I guess that's what Sundays are for
Rest for his shoes
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem