Lessons in life part 9….The importance of shoes and shirts

Apparently, trainers don’t do funerals
I said to myself out loud
whilst looking down at dead man’s brogues.
Well your Grandad won’t need them,
you’re lucky he was a size 8,
the soles had segs that clicked
as we carried the coffin,
I thought I might slip.

I missed the days of cherry blossom black
polishing Clarks on the back-door mat,
or the skateboard blow-out of one right sole
and the rain-soaked toe poke
of a worn-through school shoe.

White boots signalled the big hair days,
that snorted at life, burning away my youth
before I was fitted for blue starched collars,
and marched to the gates with unions to follow;
Shirts became redundant,
pungent under arm interviews, my daily muse
that and the depression of dole queues.

To manage all this, I needed a tie
something hard working to catch the eye,
a bigger slice of long-hours pie.
Steel toes were tough enough
to miss the children’s childhood,
trading story time and evening meals
for hours on a clock card.

Now it’s a Polo shirt, loose round the neck
with the joy of retirement for me to accept.
Before the corns come comfortable shoe’s
and the unbuttoned days of a life less confused.
Maybe a slip-on or Sketchers soft foam,
Just something lightweight for the old folks home.