Shoes in a Cupboard

Is there no manual to explain
What I should do with them? The pain.
Oh I would rather have his feet
Than these old shoes, now obsolete.

There`s nothing that evokes more clear
The bitter fact that he`s not here
Than seven pairs of empty shoes.
They gather dust. They are no use.

Each shoe a template of his foot.
From black work shoe to walking boot.
His ancient brogues, with upturned toes;
Polished and loved, new heels and soles.

Each morning, Hobson`s choice, one pair
Took on his vigour, ran downstairs;
Would walk with spring the streets and paths,
Would hear his phone calls, share his laughs.

They sit in pairs and gather dust.
Awaiting his return. I must?.
But what? Dumb indecision now:
To keep, discard, to give, to throw?

What should one do with dead men`s shoes,
So quiet and empty, no more use?
Poor things, abandoned, wait in vain.
Is there no manual to explain?