-By Shem Onderi
You bear the smell of my feet.
How my whole foot fits inside you—
it’s amazing, unimaginable.
See, my toes are huge, unruly,
each one pointing its own way.
You carry my weight,
take the blows of stones
so I remain safe.
At times, I polish you with hard-bristled care,
but the village mud always gets the last laugh.
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To stay firm, you must be tied tight.
Bear my gait, my shoe,
for I walk unaware of the friction beneath me—
to be honest, I hardly think of you,
because you’re replaceable.
Dust, mud, heat, and weight—
you endure it all.
If only you could speak.
You’re cherished when new—
even thieves eye you with envy.
Your laces tighten with every mile,
because the road is never smooth.
Sometimes you’re torn,
leaking,
dust-beaten,
worn out—
yet I keep you.
You are part of me.
Understand this:
I’m not careless on the road—
it’s the terrain.
I’m just trying not to hurt myself.
You tread on sharps, on thorns, on filth,
and still, my feet stay whole
because you’re there.
The cobbler stitches you tight,
arms you for the road.
You don’t smell—
it’s my feet, my unwashed toes.
So brace yourself, my shoe—
until the day I replace you.
