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.
Two Second Street 