The Shoemakers Bench

tangled strings in heaps on the mahogany work bench
sparkling with dust under the waning lamplight.
various tools, their wood worn to a light shade of brown
by years of of twisting and turning and tireless mending
of the fine leather bindings, strewn about
taut and rough as his bone-thin hands that thread
the spools of string into tiny holes with years of shaking precision.
his milky gray eyes behind opaque lenses, the skin around them
crinkling as he concentrates on his work.
this old soul sews new soles