The Polishings

In the warm painted porch of our old stucco house,
at the legged laundry sink
covered with a plywood board,
my father taught me as he’d been taught,
how a salesman should polish his good shoes.

“Make them shine enough to speak,” he insisted. 
“They’re your first step through the door.” 
He’d spread out newspaper, rags and brushes
and metal tins that twisted open with a pop,
revealing creams—deep brown, black, cordovan.

He taught me by doing with his own two hands:
a rag doubled to keep the gob of polish
from bleeding through; the non-master hand
like a foot inside the worked-on shoe
to hold it steady;
the thorough coating and spreading over leather

of waxy color, starting from scuffed toe
then down the instep-side to heel and back to toe. 
Once both shoes were creamed over,
he lit a cigarette to let the glazed pair dry. 
Hurried brushing, he’d say,
made a short-lived shine that wouldn’t last half a day

of cold calls on the road.  My father knew so much
in his handsome hands—
gilded with a rectangled wristwatch,
a wedding band, and between knuckles,
wiry sprays of golden hair.  I can still see
one hand hidden inside a brogue, the other gripping

the wooden brush as it bristled out a leathered glow. 
How long did they last
those lessons on the porch? One year? Two? 
How long the morning polishings with the jobless day
before him, a son watching, a wife waiting
and no door but ours to walk through.