Van Gogh
VAN GOGH'S SHOES.
The shoes of an itinerant.
The shoes of a man
Who walks onward, onward,
Always seeking, always doubting.
These shoes,
Thrown down carelessly
By a man
Who sleeps in his shirt.
By a man who smells of absinthe
And unwashed women.
He sits on the edge of his bed,
Looking at his shoes.
Trying to focus.
Trying to decide what shoes are for.
How long has he had these shoes?
Was he wearing them all those years ago
When, briefly, he knew love?
Did someone stand on them
To reach up to kiss him?
If only he could focus!
Did he walk the dreary streets
Of Borinage
In these shoes? They look old enough.
See! There is still a trace
Of coal-dust in the seams!
Dd he polish them, briefly,
For Paris?
Did his brother once say
'Buy some new shoes, Vincent!'
Or was that someone else?
Where did he walk today?
Ah, pollen!
From sunflowers!
The gold dust lies thin
On the faded leather.
Or is that coal-dust?
Tomorrow
What?
Ah yes,
He will put on these shoes.
He will walk down the street.
And buy......something.....something sharp.
