In a Vermont bedroom closet
With a door of two broad boards
And for back wall a crumbling old chimney
(And that’s what their toes are towards),
I have a pair of shoes standing,
Old rivals of sagging leather,
Who once kept surpassing each other,
But now live even together.
They listen for me in the bedroom
To ask me a thing or two
About who is too old to go walking,
With too much stress on the who.
I wet one last year at Montauk
For a hat I had to save.
The other I wet at the Cliff House
In an extra-vagant wave.
Two entirely different grandchildren
Got me into my double adventure.
But when they grow up and can read this
I hope they won’t take it for censure.
I touch my tongue to the shoes now
And unless my sense is at fault,
On one I can taste Atlantic,
On the other Pacific, salt.
One foot in each great ocean
Is a record stride or stretch.
The authentic shoes it was made in
I should sell for what they would fetch.
But instead I proudly devote them
To my museum and muse;
So the thick-skins needn’t act thin-skinned
About being past-active shoes.
And I ask all to try to forgive me
For being as over-elated
As if I had measured the country
And got the United States stated.