The Cobbler

I wear a dress polished with black,

Due to the shoes on my lap.

I sit on the platform surrounded with torn shoes,

As I see people walk past me

With forlorn faces.

I mend a pair of shoes,

To earn a single penny.

I polish the shoes up and down,

With my dry hands

As the dust jumps left and right

To rest in the ground

To make the shoes bright.

The only possession I held

Was my thread and needle.

The fortune I created

Was the shoes I made.

The shoes I designed

Don't own any brand's name

Instead it held my finger prints

Of my overworked hands.

I mend my broken heart

With a literal needle in hand.

I still wear a dress polished with black,

Because of the shoes on my lap

That provides me food on the plate.