Saturday, 29 March 2014


I do not possess lots of shoes,
my last pair sufficed all my needs
for several years,
just those, and Wellingtons mean there is
little chance for anybody else,
even if they want to be,
in my shoes.

Once when officially sized,
I went home with leather uppers and
a compass in the sole,
safe in the knowledge that I would always
be able to find my way home,
except I couldn’t,
in my shoes.
My brother’s shoes would fit,
they always did at some point in
my development,
by then I would ensure that the soles
were split or puncture them,
so I didn’t have to,
wear his shoes.
Once a dear friend of mine,
who had been drinking
beyond control,
got up semi conscious and put
on his wife’s stilettos by mistake,
he fell down the stairs,
in her shoes
I’ve met people occasionally,
and thought how wonderful their
life must be,
seeing only the fa├žade that they wish to reveal
that can be misleading,
and I’d think I’d like to be,
in their shoes.
Shoes are a funny thing,
that we may want to wear someone else’s
or they yours,
until we walk behind our first impressions
and find we don’t exactly fit,
how we thought,
into their shoes.

© Simon Bridges

This poem was published in the Poetry Space Showcase in August 2010.
Simon later went on to publish a book Sepia and Silence (Matador) and you can buy it through the Poetry Space online shop.

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