This image of the Shoeshine Man is from the comment factory (link above) that features the poetry of my cousin Spencer Michael Farmans.
High upon the chair they sit,
the dull ones and the lively wits,
to see some gook slap their shoes
and hear an old man tell his news.
Thirty-five years in this same spot
He’s twirled a rag as a spinning top
To summon hide just off the street
And thus caressing hungry feet.
Now a cigarette hangs from his lips
As he eyes the empty can for tips,
And clients learn that he didn’t seek
The noted style of other techniques.
For long ago he learned to hone
The way he shined his shoes at home.
A simple stripe in an easy role
Would illuminate the dullest sole.
He swings his arms from left to right
In a final fury like a boxer fights,
And despite the years of twisted gears
He’s created two most stunning mirrors.