Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

For a long time Gordon from Boston was hiding a pebble in his shoe: a small pebble, almost as palpable as the acne under his beard, as visible as his boring life. He tried to hide it until a beggar offered him his stick to help him be lame with dignity. For months his wife waved the ‘Shoe Heaven’ receipt, asking him to return those ugly green shoes and buy something suitable for his age.

She gave up after Gordon’s doctor told her that his checkup was
better than ever. No high blood pressure, no high cholesterol. ‘He is
not dying at all, after thirty years of marriage,’ their doctor said with a little smile that only another man could understand .

Who cared that the old ‘Flower Bower’ clerk said that Mr Gordon was spending a lot of money on cacti he never noticed before. Who cared if the owner of ‘Gray Clothes’ had a bad time after Mr Gordon switched from gray to brown.

Who cared if his old pals ate more crisps while waiting for Gordon to show up at a Saturday bridge party.

When did it happen?

It happened the day Gordon went to buy black shoes and a shop girl with a strange accent came to help him unlace his old ones.
‘What beautiful feet for running away,’ she said. And she brought him the green shoes.

Only his dog didn’t complain about taking longer walks with Gordon. Not only to the middle of the park and back as usual but all the way up the Lonely Street and to the bench right across from the second floor of the skyscraper. Then they would sit and watch the window where a young pregnant woman was singing some foreign song while putting tiny pebbles in a cactus pot.

‘Quite different from the TV screen we used to watch every night,’
the dog would say on his way back home.