The Shoes Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

The Shoes

I guess, artists are thieves,
Burglarise and steal.

In case of shoe poem
Of zaynub, it is me.

Not the words, nor tactic,
But concern and seeing.

She writes of pile of shoes,
I write my stories.

I write of the people
That taught me with their feet.

Wonder where to start,
When did I first notice?

Maybe when we lived in
The village, mountains, hills
And the same were footwear.

The shoes of dad, mother,
Siblings, aunts, uncles,
Looked-alike, were handmade,
Soles blue and tops white,
Made from the cotton
Carefully processed
In three, two colours,
Engulfed with raw leathers.

Kids neither needed, nor
Had, before five, or four.

Next, the shoes of Mahmood
From thin, thick leather,
Well-polished with long lace.

Then galosh or shoes with
Red inside, imported,
From the plastic or rubber.

Yes, the world around me
And the shoes kept changing.

Travelled world around
Saw flat, and high heels
Added to woman's butts
Enlarge, bulge, be sexy!

Then, sandals, flip flops,
Sport shoes, and shanties'
To bare feet in the deserts
And the porters', made of
The tires strips, after used.

And I heard shoes talking,
About the poor and meek.

I praised cracks on
Labourer's rough skin:
"For bread, am working! "

At each mosque and shrine
Stacks of the shoes talk.

But the most influential
Was the man on drug.

I headed the committee
So, was judge and jury.

Shopkeeper came to me:
"Window is broken,
They stole shoe samples."

When the thief was brought,
Remembered little child,
His wife said: "He uses drug! "

I helped them reunite,
Soon after, left child, wife
For the sake of drug
And broke shoes' window!