-the spit-shine-

Call it Kiwi.

Some-time ago the young sergeant sits

At the edge of his bunk

The bunk on the bottom

Unclothed save for teeshirt and shorts

In the open space of the emptied barracks

Socked feet on the floor

One hand

For the boot, pressed firmly inside it, 

The military issue, braced for a spit-shine.

Some-time ago

One boot on the floor is laying on its side

On a newspaper page

Waiting its turn, not yet unlaced.

Call it Kiwi.

Some-time ago the art student sits

At the edge of his bed

The twin not wide enough for two

In underwear and socks,

Feet on the floor,

Newspaper down like its a rule,

One hand for the boot, inside all the way

To the toe, in a fist,
Stretching the soft leather out,

One hand for the cloth, dabbed in black.

Call it Kiwi,

Circling the surface of leather

Near panting at the fingertips.

Some time ago the buffing brush
Slaps and glides across the radiance 

Like a yacht to weather over the water,—
One hand for the boat,—
One hand for the boot,—

One boot on the floor is on its side

Not yet unlaced,

Is waiting its turn for the shine of its life,

And its history recurring.