Ode To Mr. Salazar

She used to caution us to walk
a mile in someone else's shoes,
hers a glorious 9AAA
because she stuffed them
in 1939 with newspapers to keep
out the snow which isn't one
of those old remember when stories,
it is a real one, a real caution.
I still find it hard to buy a new pair.
My dog chewed
the Doc Martens purchased
at a Riyahd shoe shop across from the old
side of the Akarya mall after
I bought my first abaya.
A stroll through that country
without any clothes on
was like walking on the moon
only better because of all
the people there.
They are still hanging on
by a thread, I regard them
in the highest esteem,
no Nikes those and made to last
a lifetime. It might be that I'll have to go
to a Mr. Salazar down in Sidon
but he won't be there
because there is no subway street
where we used to take our old
things to be mended.
Peasants love their cobblers
almost as much as they love
their own mothers, essential
people with fine names
and special machinery to keep
a pair together. But Sidon
is a real heaven in the south.
A city like that needs
a thousand Salazars,
tons of heavy thread.