Worth Repair

He stoops as I empty a shopping bag
full of wing-tips, loafers, oxfords.
They slump on the counter, his shop thick
with the smells of coffee and leather.

He writes my name with a meticulous hand,
fingers stained the color of old saddles. Ink
flows steadily from his pen to the claim ticket.

You are Jewess? Yes?
Armenia.
Points the stub of a missing index finger
at his chest.
In Armenia where I am come from,
we have no Jews.

He asks three times if I want to rebuild
my husband's shoes. I nod.
He pulls a pair of shining lace-ups
from ordered shelves -- men's dress
separated from women's pumps.
Well-behaved boots line the floor.

Look this one. Good work, see?
Heels, soles, polish. Not cheap.

I am not sure
if he means the cost
or the quality of his work.

In Armenia, I used make shoes.
Here I fix. Here people throw out.

He wraps my hands with his --
the nap of his calluses suede-smooth.
Lines on his face ease
when I assure him I understand
about taking care of things.