Gill Horitz
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Last Thing Sunday Night
Iron last from a cobbler’s corner,
from the shoe-horn days of
caring for family hide. Hoicked from
the back pantry by my Dad
last thing Sunday night.
Kneeling on the kitchen floor,
he laid shoes paired
on newspaper like dead rabbits,
creamed their creases,
mysteriously housed iron
feet in the invisible air
of our footwear.
The closest we came, our family’s
shoes on the kitchen floor, with him
hammering home Blakeys, the shape
of kidneys, dabbing saliva
on our worn down heels,
the closest we came
to kisses.
Published in Mslexia: 24