Walking in old shoes.
Worn out soles – cracking.
He has that particular walk of a man with weight on his shoulders.
A story in every step.
Tales of work and love.
Of pride and family.
But these are stories that his lips will never tell.
These stories are told by his eyes with their far off look.
By his hands – calloused and dry.
By his shirt stained by sweat.
And by those shoes.
Those muddied shoes that take him to work early each morning.
Shoes that tap along empty streets.
Taps echoed in each alleyway.
Clapping for the man who wears them.