Cobbler and the Shoemaker
There are many that shall remain nameless here.
A difference between them, but one in the same really.
Each dependent on more than steak and milk.
But breath of clove,
Tongues of wintergreen,
Hips narrow and bane,
A mouth with patient words.
We are but the Cobbler and the Shoemaker.
Two calloused, and breathing, skilled at our trades,
But poor in sight and with dirty bare feet.
I won’t trade you a penny for a spool of thread.
Nor, will I ever wear you without pride.
Only will this heart wind you up,
Tight like a child on a tire swing.
Watching you spin, happy and kept like
A curled updo.
Neatly pinned, with elastic.
You open up quite nicely,
The mender of these laced leather goods.
You are my awl,
In your presence I pule,
Knowing now, the slipper is too bitty for the foot.
Yet, we just make it fit.