Abuelito's Clock

Last night, home alone,
I stubbed my toe while in my dimly lighted room
lit by only night lights plugged into outlets,
a room ready for bed time.
I bend over to rub and soothe the pain,
tiny shadows cast, climbing over folds,
my wrinkled skin made surreal by this darken room.
Noticing toe nails left unkempt,
my Abuelito’s feet evince.
A reverie of recall when last I witnessed them
hooked around the legs of a wooden stool,
his toes splayed in Mexican huaraches
covered in clay dust and grey dirt
from the streets outside his shop
where he’d repair, resole 'sapatos' .
They're slipped like sleeves onto black cast iron anvils
that resemble upside down feet.
Sunlight dimly lights inside his shop at day time,
lit at night by shards of moonlight rays piercing
through strategically placed slats of tin and cardboard roof
Supported atop walls of grass and mud
not unlike many casas in Torreon.
Under the moon and 'piszca de estrellas'
with squinting eyes and bottle glass lenses
he would clean and repair 'pistolas'
to make a few extra pesos.

Like in Edgar Allen Poe’s ’Tell Tale Heart’,
"...a slither of light cast a shadow upon his eye",
a dim light lays upon my aged feet
reminding me of how ‘time’ passes by
like when shadows cast are captured only by chance.