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By Laurel Ahlfeld Date: 2009 Apr 02 Comment on this Work [[2009.04.02.21.42.23960]] |
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The smell of Sunday is shoe polish To me I can be anywhere on any day And when the smell hits me It is Sunday Passing a shoe shine stand On the sidewalk Or Grand Central Station The Hispanic lady That polishes attorneys' shoes In the hall at my office Must think I'm crazy I round the corner and smile It is not nine in the morning On a dismal Thursday It is Sunday morning instead Leftover smells of cinnamon rolls Tangled with my Sunday smell I sit patiently in my church dress Waiting for him As he meticulously creates perfection Out of a tin can and brush He sets them on the newspaper to dry Now we wait together Until the time arrives When he laces them up And takes my tiny hand Inside his big warm hand Yes, Sundays are made of shoe polish And holding my father's hand |