"Es verdad que lo ignoro todo sobre el."
Borges, 'Isidoro Acevedo'
Like a stack of footfalls they pile in tangles
against the creamy walls - that terra incognita
waiting for the first tread: a dotted lozenge
of an open-toe stiletto sole; an angled maze
of old workboot; the swirls of logoed trainer.
My jumble of shoes sit in their carrier,
quiet as the shy child in the new school
abandoned to his fate by those he trusts.
Behind the counter, a woman, perked in pink
and the sweet sweat smells of abandonment.
I want to say: look after them, as they
looked after me running for buses, stood
in queues, parked within desk-ceilinged caves.
This shoe caught the eye of one I came
to love; that boot chewed my heel to blood.
And yet do I know the secret lives of those
who shod me? Perhaps they plot and plan
incarcerations, the separation of ball
and arch from the polite societies of ant
and stump. Quis custodiet custodiam?