Shoes Poem by Robert Rorabeck

My shoes are cold
And I’m wearing them
So I am cold,
But I’m running out of
Shoes:
I climb mountains,
I work 365 days a year;
It takes a toll on leather souls.
My other set has a black widow
And 9,000 of her offspring
Living in the left shoe,
So the right shoe has nowhere
To go.
I wouldn’t wish to relocate them
Forcefully, and create more youthful
Terrorism.
I wonder if great men become
Great because they wear
Perfectly fitting shoes,
Or if feral men who know nothing
Of words, should put on an educated man’s
Shoes, they should instantly learn to speak
As well as their king;
Or, if a poem is written about shoes,
Should it then smell like feet;
Or, if unread, should it smell like anything at all.