Long enough that the shoes I brought from home,
That fit so well, have worn out pounding Glasgow's pavement.
In the process of trying to find a pair of new shoes,
I discover how poorly I fit in here. The foot of the Average Scot
Is a good inch narrower than the foot of the Average American.
Or at least I assume this from the size of all the shoes I have tried.
I have not, in fact, come close enough in eighteen months here
To an Average Scot to find out.
And I think to myself - I bet our feet are the same.
But like hanging the wash on the radiator,
Walking in rain like it's not raining,
Fixing broken things with "out-of-order" signs,
The Average Scot suffers through ill-fitting shoes with pinched feet
Simply because one hates to complain...
Here is the sinkhole of homesickness amid shoe boxes -
Oh, I long to speak and not see the polite look of incomprehension.
I long to listen and have some inkling of what has been said.
I long to be my old, unselfconscious self,
Not this pinched person I have become,
Trying to fit into this other place like one of Cinderella's sisters.
I want to go HOME.
Really, I just need to pick out a pair of shoes.
I'll be fine.
by Lori Martin, 2003
image: https://www.flickr.com/photos/imarr/371886209
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