I remember polishing
his worn leather shoes.
Size nines. Inside the wooden
shoeshine kit, squat jars
of mahogany and ebony,
strong smelling polish I spread
thin as butter on a Sunday bagel,
over scuff marks where he had scraped
his feet against the metal drawer
of his desk. I worked the polish in
with a rag, diligently buffing
with a chamois cloth
as if wearing shiny shoes
might make him stop
scowling into the distance,
draw his attention
closer to home.