Principal Shoes

My father sat
on the kitchen chair,
his school shoes lined up
like obedient kindergartners.
One by one
stiff brush scrubbing dirt
imbedded in seams, clean
cloth wiping away dust.
Flat tins, black and brown,
the Kiwi like a Muppet,
soft rag picking up polish
he rubbed into the leather,
little grunts at the worn spots.
Then the buffing brush, his
left hand in his shoe, the back
and forth of his right
drawing the gleam from dull
leather, catching the light,
reflecting the man.