SHOE SHINE GAL

He was a retired Air Force Captain, my dad,
But he still wore his military high top boots.
He liked a spit shine every day, and
said he’d pay me ten cents to do it.

At first it was a novelty.
Boy, did I make those boots shine.

But I was a girly girl of sixteen,
with a pink Princess phone, and
Capezio flats.
My thoughts were of satin, organza,
and the sheen of womanly perfection.

The antithesis of this was polishing
High top boots for ten cents.

And then, one day,
the doorbell,
The arrival of my fluttery, sparkly friends,
Preening as they waited for one of their own.

I flew, hoping to escape
the forgotten unshined boots.
As my hand reached for the screen door,
Another tapped my shoulder,
“Shine your father’s shoes first!”

Oh, cruel life,
Shattered facade,
You odious boots.
Now I could no longer claim sisterhood
with the shimmering nymphs on my doorstep.

Instead, I was Cinderella on the ash heap
of a tin of Kiwi shoe polish,
a blackened rag,
and a horsehair brush.

I like to repeat this shoe shine story,
as a paean and amusing pass
through my cotton candy labyrinth
of teen desire and despair.

My mom is never amused.
She remains in that long ago moment,
and drums her fingers indignantly,
“You should have shined the shoes first!”