Florence by Terry Allen

 

Image | Bryan

Florence

You only got two feet, I’d say,

and she’d laugh ‘cause she knew

what was coming, and I’d say,

Florie, why you need all those shoes.

It was like priming a pump, and she’d

start in on detailed accounts

about what happened when she was a girl

during the war. We’d walk everywhere,

she’d say. We’d walk to school,

to church, to the store, to our friends,

to downtown and hither and yon

and back again for amusement.

We walked so much that we wore

out the soles and heels of our shoes

and then had to glue on rubber soles

to get a few more months wear,

but pretty soon they’d come loose

at the tips and start flapping,

and we’d get embarrassed.

So, we’d use thumb tacks

to try to keep them in place.

That doesn’t sound so bad,

I’d say,

At least you had

something to wear

on your feet.

If I was lucky, she’d say,

‘cause shoes were rationed to three pair

per year, and you take shoes away

from a teenage girl, and you got yourself

a whole lot of trouble. So, forget the sugar,

forget the meat, forget the gas and what all

else because…I’ve had a thing about shoes

ever since. And that was my Florie for you.

Near the end, she couldn’t remember

what she did yesterday, and sometimes

she’d forget who I was, but if you got her

going, she could tell you that you could

only get shoes during the war in four colors:

white, black, town brown, and army russet.

It makes me kinda sad

to look in her closet today.

First published in Well Versed.

© Terry Allen

Terry Allen

Terry Allen is an Emeritus Professor of Theatre Arts at the University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire, where he taught acting, directing and playwriting. He is the author of five poetry collections: Monsters in the Rain, Art Work, Waiting on the Last Train, Rubber Time, and Preserving the Past for the Present.

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