the shoe shine

I stop after work
for a shoe
shine, before I board the train
home.

to my wife and three children.
I live in Connecticut now.

up on the hill in a fine white
house.

trees all around.
a driveway that curves in,
then out.

but my shoes, brown and worn,
have lost their shine.

I take my hat off and sit
on the tall seat with the new
York times.

the war is over and another
one looms
on the horizon

as it always does. men being men.
restless in peace.

always sharpening their swords.

but on this autumn day with leaves
falling
in colorful whispers, I stop

to smoke, to sit and have my
shoes shined

before heading home. i'll tip
the boy well.

remembering having been that boy
myself.