A Poem From My Archives

You left your shoes behind
And it still occupies my mind.
You were neither white nor black,
And there is no turning back
For those shoes you left behind,
Which still occupy my mind.
Your accent was upper class
But, somewhere along the line
Fine
Metal
Did settle
For brass.
You left your shoes behind
And they still occupy my mind.
It is rarely white or black.
And the way
To a brass tack
Is easier than some say.