Sunday Shoes, Saturday Soul

Sunday shoes, Saturday soul
Grandma, let the good ones go

White patent under tissue paper
Size five, a buckle bright as brass
She checks my feet, then checks the polish
I watch her turn them in her hands
"Bring them back," she says, "not spotless"
And folds the paper in the box
Her kitchen radio is playing
I catch her moving in her socks

I thought she kept them for the best days
She says, "Go make yourself one, then"

Sunday shoes, Saturday soul
White buckles flashing when the bass runs low
She taught these feet a joy I know
Sunday shoes, Saturday soul

Shine, shine
Let the good ones go

Shine, shine
Let the good ones go

A woman asks me where I found them
I point down smiling, "Family"
The DJ lets an organ run
And Grandma's kitchen comes to me
I don't dance quite the way she does
I keep her shoulder in the turn
One little scuff across the toe
One little thing the shoes have learned

Sunday shoes, Saturday soul
White buckles flashing when the bass runs low
She taught these feet a joy I know
Sunday shoes, Saturday soul

I show the mark across the leather
She lifts the shoes into the sun
"Good shoes are no good left in the box"
Then asks me, "Did you have some fun?"

Sunday shoes, Saturday soul
One new scuff and a story to show
She taps her foot; I already know
Sunday shoes, Saturday soul

She keeps the box
I keep the next dance