The Old Shoe Box

A box of old shoes under the stair, Discarded, unwanted, no matching pair. No longer needed, pushed out of sight. Resigned to this box, and a fast fading light. Soft supple leather with creases to spare, Polished and nourished with infinite care, Deep, deepest red, black cherry hue, Once, long ago, a fine ladies shoe. Dirty old canvas all tatty and frayed, Laces have gone with age they have strayed. Way back in time in Olympics it shone, The end of an era, the last race is run. A crusty old boot with steel in the hide, Remembers the days the land it would stride, Helped build this country relished the role, Undaunted, unbowed, grit in the sole. A soft velvet slipper its partner long gone, Lies quiet in the box while the world moves along, Once in a while a pale silken glove, Holds it so gently and strokes it with love. Such a wearisome time in this box of rejects, What happens now? What happens next? Each knows the answer. No use debating. It’s the end of the line, and Heaven is waiting.