F. William Broome

MY FATHER’S SHOES

On a chore-filled morning months after
Dad’s death, a dreaded clothes inventory
gives up a treasure of well-selected apparel
that will outlast any and all style changes.

Living beyond four score, the old clotheshorse
leaves well tailored suits, feel-good shirts,
exemplary ties, dozens of comfortable pairs
of pants, complimented by appropriate jackets.

In neat rows of boxes, from floor to ceiling
are quality footwear, needing, perhaps, to
be stretched a bit, and after donning manhood’s
mantle, I would, in fact, fill my father’s shoes.