Abashed


Can we ever really imagine

what it feels like to be in

somebody else’s shoes?


Yes, is the answer to that.


Something happened to me

when I was a young boy.


It was the era when every

house had a last and hand-

me-downs were common,

often between relations

nephews even nieces.


On one such exchange I

was forced to wear a pair

of girls sandals with those

leather straps which had

a silver buckle that was

large enough for a belt.


Dancing shoes, in black

patent leather shiny as

saddles on postmen’s

bicycles and that is why

I wouldn’t go to Lucey’s

field to play football.


Because I thought they

would all be laughing.