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By Vincent Lachina
Alone she sat,
Old, wrinkled, bent.
Her legs crossed at the ankles
Her cotton stockings forming
Little lines as her toes moved
Up, then under.
Shoes to be re-soled – again.
There was no desire or money
To even glance at displays of
Patent leather in store windows.
Who was to care that her
Shoes were old and worn?
And that was sad.
But who would care that she,
Though old and tired,
Could not be re-souled.
Except the Shoe Builder
Who saw her need in silence.
