The Cobbler

I walked by, day by day
The roadside where he sat, with his plastic stool
And tools of varying sizes
Metal and wood converging with the smell of old age
He smiled a toothless grin
Creases feebly collecting like mud puddles
A buoyant wart in a sea of marbled lines

And shoes
In various shades of earth
and concrete
and deep voids of black
Hanging by threads undone
Hands moist with polish and fun
A tap-tap-tap with an wooden gun

No expensive paper needed to dream, there