Mongolian boots.
Mongolian boots.

Down crooked stairs of

rocky concrete to a rusted

door with only a loose metal

bolt to provide security,


Stepping over the jutting

metal frame into a threadbare

cavern with mismatched

hues of gray with spidery cracks,


Leaning on a glass countertop

that holds needles and

blackened hammer heads

used in some mechanic wonder,


A woman you’d think would

be sun starved sits at her

workshop with eyes chiseled

into the amber cliffs of her cheeks,


She threads needles to secure

mysterious foreign glues to

fabrics and materials not

exactly the most traditional,


Hammering the pliable rubber

she lifts her eyebrows at

long boots with pointed toes

imploring for a purchase,


The fix is made that appears

sturdy but will probably

crumble in two weeks of

use on the harsh city walks,


She nods a thanks thinking

you know not her way of

speaking so softly that it is

unheard over the humming bulbs.

Composed 01/15/14

Author’s Note: Getting your shoes fixed for the first time here in Mongolia can be an interesting experience. It took her a while to sew them shut, and they came apart again a few weeks later, but I do abuse my shoes quite frequently in the winter.


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