mr joghe2

My old shoes, my best friend.
They guard my feet from thorns and stumps
when I seek their laces.
My feet are warm as I visit their womb
To lodge for some moments.
They hold my ankles tight with care like a dearest friend.
My body is lifted up like fur in the air
To walk as a soldier in a battlefield.
On the streets, my old shoes are glad to sweep the beautiful roads,
With the greetings of coins falling into my calabash.
I am called a beggar
And nod to their requests.
My hope is in my old shoes
That take me around the streets.