Never before had I seen a shoe that was lovely.
It rested on a light brown paper bag,
itself dark brown, laceless, back from the mender’s,
and all around was grass, straddled by leaves.
Among the tiny upright clover they lay,
curled and crinkled, a varied in-between brown
on miniature green swords.
At the edge of the park
part of a circle of trees.
The October sun
shone down, lit up the white string on the bag,
and showed the shoe, and an ant crawling over its surface,
and traces of black, for I had used the wrong polish,
and worn leather. A shoe on a bumpy bag.
Colour was in the sky, the cars, the houses
around the park. I was glad I was not blind.

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