THE SHOEMAKER

he awakens
on his tenth birthday
before the rising sun
sliding past his brothers
as grandfather sleeps
with a watchful eye

for lack of kindling
he skips his cup of tea
and heads barefoot
out into the rain
the cold mud oozing
between his toes

he hastens to board
and antiquated bus
which rumbles along
its belching tailpipe
leaking diesel fumes
into the crowded coach

the mood is somber
no one speaks
in this daily nightmare
all eyes watching
for the colossal gates
like those at the prison

entering the compound
mechanical monsters
can already be heard
instruments of fear
playing a symphony
of exploitation and profit

marched in like soldiers
he will train a new kid
at his workstation
the adjacent unattended
as yesterday a young girl
severed three fingers

under constant threat
of a foreman’s baton
and permanent dismissal
he works feverishly
tracing cutting stitching
one hundred soles today

his hands bruised and sore
he stares unconsciously
at countless piles
of finished shoes
too exhausted to think
about all the people
who can afford them