He would never have been seen in trainers. Any work boots he had were kept at work. “You can tell a man’s standing by the state of his shoes.” He was a shoe fan. With black polished Oxfords and brogues in tan, He was a sole man, a leather sole man. At a loose end, or before a big event, Or as part of his regular Sunday morning ritual, He laid out his kit on last night’s newspaper, And polished and buffed to his heart’s content. Those black polished Oxfords and brogues in tan He was a sole fan, a leather sole fan. They lined up in pairs, heels facing out, Under the Oakwood, utility sideboard. Caressed by Kiwi, cherished by Cherry Blossom, Each pair waiting to be treated in turn. The black polished Oxfords, and the brogues in tan. He was a sole fan, a leather sole fan. He despaired at my winkle pickers, My crepe-soled beetle crushers. “Damage your feet, man, make them sweat You can tell a man’s standing by the state of his shoes” With his black shiny Oxfords, and his brogues in tan, He was an “old-school” man, a leather sole man. He knew that shoes were a man’s best friend, And treated each pair with studied deference. They repaid him amply, lasting for years, Until his body complained and rejected them, His black leather Oxfords and brogues in tan. He lost his soles man, his leather soles man. His aching feet grew so misshapen, His well-groomed footwear gathered dust. How I struggled with my words, How he tried to hide the hurt of my rejection. Those black polished Oxfords and brogues in tan, They were his soles man, not my soles man. Thirty years on I despair at his trainers, Designed for land-fill after a season. With the scent of new leather and cobblers dye, And the sense of well-being in restoring life, To my black leather Oxfords and my brogues in tan, I’m a sole man, a leather sole man.