My dad’s leather shoes
Old, dormant, resting under the kitchen table
Curled up at the toe, beaten in at the back
Crispy insoles, like sandpaper, grit from the garden
And odour of turps, and beer slurped
Speckles of white paint dot the tongue
Inky blue, now a gauntly grey
Nuzzled by the dog
Sometimes, he forgets where he kicked them off!
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