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 gifts  / 
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 wad  / 
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 sons  / 
(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."