The Shoes, Sir
He is speaking but I can’t hear him.
Not in any real sense.
Elections, god you hate them.
Three years is not long enough
to cleanse the senses; to throw off
the reams of promises, the taunts.
This politician has a suit.
It’s so Saville Row. Or Merivale.
You never know nowadays.
He raised his voice several times
and cliches rattled out.
He waved his arms to scatter his truth.
I noticed he forgot something.
His shoes – always
a big mistake.
That’s what my mother said:
check the shoes; the quality, the polish.
It was clear, then.
This man, by my mother’s measure,
was nothing more than an oaf.