Black Suede Dreams - Jean Jorgensen

Dignified and standing straight,
Shoe-tree’d and neat,
Waiting in a quiet place
For work-weary feet.
The pretend glass slippers of that dreary northern street.

Did the mother have her dreams?
As did the child in later years.
The child, with eager, careful touch,
Grasping the wooden-handled brush,
Its wiry bristles smoothing
Soft black suede,
Creating shadows light and dark
That played their game and changed and moved,
Never staying the same.

Nor did the dreams.
The mother’s changed by toil and care,
The child’s yet to be found there
In that world of softest suede that she had longed to clean.
And so discovered her dream.

Jean Jorgensen