Tuesday, March 22, 2011

At the Library

Shoes, shoes
Shoes that squeak
Down the aisle
Clodhoppers sneak
Ever growing strong and loud
Getting closer to the crowd
My eyes look down upon the feet
They sound so strange in creaky cheek
I see gray shoes hard years have worn 
Elephant ankles’ weary mourn
My eyes turn upward to the source
These squeaky shoes have wrought off-course
Ratty clothes, knotty hair
I wonder how she made it here
Until I watch her take a seat 
Whip out a book and take retreat 
She’s just like me, she wants to read-
The common thread to succeed


Helena said...

Wonderful. The library - my safe haven, too - squeaky or not..!

Jim Swindle said...

I like the poem. It reminds me of an old lady I knew decades ago, a church librarian, with hefty legs and sturdy shoes.

Judy Roney said...

What an incredible story you weave. I love the way you look at things and how you mingle words in forms I haven't heard. Just beautiful!