My Mother kept family photos in boxes.
Your boxes still contained the shoes
Each carefully stuffed with white tissue
or wooden blocks /
And wrapped in a cloth bag or sock.
I thought of packed glass and wedding
Or rather, leather heirlooms. /
Your Father's rough hands yanked at everything
Pulled apart the neat order /
Scattered crumpled wrinkled heaps and
box tops, /
Massaged your big feet to find the money
Hidden between toes. /
You would laugh now over the scene
His greedy paws shoed. /
Did he mean to collect on lost time?
"Cole-Haan. These are expensive...
Too large." /
Indeed. He could never fit into
your shoes. /
Did he wonder how he produced such a boy
so removed? /
Glove-leather slippers, snakeskin boots,
Sueded Gucci loafers, polished brown brogues,
Silver-glittered sneakers, high-heels
(size 14). /
What value was this pair of luxurious
(You and your Lover) now both gone?
Helplessly, your Mother looked on
(Like mine towards my Father) and
Let him select what was tossed or kept.
She could've said, "Save the boxes."