The shop assistant hovers
among a hundred luminous shoes.
It seems half of Brighton
has left with newly sprung insteps
while I’ve wiggled my toes
and he’s popped to the storeroom.
They say you should test a new mattress
for half an hour, but what about this?
I want to know how they’d feel
when I prop up my walking stick
after the corner shop, how the buckles’
rust would stain my feet. His sales target
needs me gone. I’ve always loved
the way a foot prints the insole saying:
this is me, this is mine, so, not ready, not sure,
I pay, hoping he’ll sleep well tonight.
At home I try to wear them in:
ten minutes, then eight, five.
A cork river pounds my arches.
I am printed with a grimace.
