by Lauren Silverman
Triumph! How many tears have fallen
For the lawyer, with feet so frighteningly wide
His heels cannot conquer the leather of the shoe,
Whose fingertips burn between ankle and sock?
Triumph! To the children who ascend the ladder
And soar down the electric silver chute,
Knowing well of the mulch that lurks below,
Yet turning round, their young stomachs crashing
Down into the sea of dirt and wood and danger.
Triumph! Might my own wretched feet
Take the path I once forged, with hands ten years smaller
May they slide down that smooth silver ramp
And settle, cushioned by fabric of a sole well-worn.
Triumph! To the working girl in the black sneakers
Whose once-miserable heels now glide forth
Into their netting, their armor
Now protected, wherever her mind might bring them.
Triumph! To the mindful young dreamers
Whose toes nestle soundly in their lace-up cocoons.
Foolish the soldier, the wanderer, the walker
Whose woolen heart crinkles in the pits of his boots
For he without aid is left inconvenienced
And longing for the shoe horn’s victorious call.
