What I thought of in the Shoe Shop
By Christopher Willard • Nov 26th, 2009 • Category: PoetryI am Borges walking on a stamped path by an icy river kicking ice crust with brown leather.
I am a Balinese girl, Pandjerah, gamelan player number ten.
I am godson of a famous actor who has never made a film better than Zaat.
I am Cezanne’s gardener, watering hot Aix jonquilles with l’eau vert.
I am the black-eyed student, Gunther, studying Panca Tattva.
I am Can-God upon whose shopping cart cans are piled halfway to Saturn’s rings.
I am a Pakistani cabbie who drives with one foot tucked under and the other foot
hopping between gas and brake.
I am Johannes Itten’s student, pre-war Germany, dark haired and portrayed as brooding and
instable.
I am Johannes Itten’s bubbly blonde who likes pastels and yellow who chirps of Arian futures.
I am Elton James Bigelow, seller of shoes, sandles, and pumps in widths of AA to EEEEEE.
What I saw in the shoe shop was also what I smelled in the shoe shop.
I saw a man ask for the largest heels we carried and I noticed he had the outline of an erection
as I managed the shoe onto his foot. He whispered, “I like my toes in small hot spaces.”
I saw a woman wearing a short skirt who sat with hiked skirt, teasing with the fact she wore
biking shorts as a chastity belt. She said, “These days there are so many upskirt photographers
with digital cameras taped to their shoes.”
I saw hammer toe, one more little-piggy all the way from home, two, snow white and the
seven dwarves, bunionettes, tailor’s toe, claw toe, mallet toe, hypertrophy.
I saw a ballerina with turf toe who told me so. She said, “I’m flexible in bed but I’m looking
at double hip surgery by forty-five.”
I saw a woman who didn’t know what sort of shoes to buy. When I told her that a pair of
shoes highlighted her ankles she wanted more. When I told her a pair accented her height she
waffled. When I called her an indecisive bitch she pulled my head close to her thigh and bought a
pair of faux alligator, emerald green.
I am Elton James Bigelow, vendor of all things foot and feet, and for one month now, Assistant Manager.
Christopher Willard is the author of the novel Sundre (Vehicule Press/Esplanade, 2009) and Garbage Head (Vehicule Press/Esplanade, 2005). His fiction and poetry have been published in Salon, Third Wednesday, Ranfurly Review, Ars Medica, Ukula, Coffee House Press, Broken Pencil, Sobriquet, and in the anthologies Can't Lit: Fearless Fiction and Double Lives, Reinventing & Those We Left Behind. He currently lives in Calgary where he teaches at the Alberta College of Art + Design.
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