In Someone Else’s Shoes
by John Herlihy
________________________________________
How revealing to be in someone else’s shoes,
One single moment inside their moody blues;
Long enough to feel one brief moment in time,
From the depths of a well their misery to climb.
To step into the soft booties of an infant child,
Wallow briefly in their sweet innocence mild;
To see visions in their eyes of everything new,
To hear the faint cooing their whispers blew.
In the toe shoes of a ballerina held aloft in flight,
As gloriously mysterious as the mystery of night;
The entire bodily structure held firm by the toe—
From toe shoe to toe shoe, the rhythms do flow.
To feel the heavy weight of a workman’s boot,
Grit heard in the thud of one’s daily labor brut;
Not in the weightlessness of a barefoot child,
Nor the flight of toe shoes as a ballerina smiled.
Those pristine velvet loafers untouched by mud,
Portraying an individual as a prime stallion stud;
Carrying the weight of privilege found in a dime,
Tucked into lips of leather in a manner sublime.
No one will forget those run-down hand-me-downs,
Shoes that one’s brother wore wearing surly frowns;
Molded perfectly to an older sibling’s awkward stride—
These shoes belonged to another, this you cannot hide.
For a little while, to be in the shoes of someone else,
To breathe their every breath and to feel their pulse—
To know what it means with a destiny not your own—
To wear someone else’s suit, hand-made and sewn.
Those hand-made sandals crafted from woven straw,
To be worn privately in summer as if against the law;
Traditional moccasins mimicking the feel of thick cloth
That conforms to the wearer’s shape, feeling oh so soft.
Let us not forget the height of fashion in high heels,
Strutting around like an actress in old movie reels;
Command the room’s attention standing on tiptoes—
Why, even in dreams, to wear high heels as you doze.
The down-upon-the-earth feel of walking barefoot,
As children run happily thru the grass, naked afoot;
The bare tactile input serves as pair of second eyes,
Fooled into thinking they are running across skies.
Woe the feeling of stepping into a clubfoot frozen,
A birth defect to live with, one flaw never chosen;
The NFL player Charles Woodson with one born—
A foot with attention and care into success shorn.
The day will come burial slippers to be slipped on,
Soft, thin shoes never the earth to touch down upon;
Shoes to represent the final journey of another kind,
A life ended and a legacy sealed, silence left behind.
Alas, never judge another person’s colorful hues,
Not until you have walked a mile in their shoes;
Every step we take leaves behind a unique trace—
Footprints left in the sand either of leather or lace.
—
Copyright © John Herlihy
Saturday 18 July 2026
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I'm recently corresponding with a beautiful ballerina who had a spinal cord injury and couldn't dance anymore. She became a firefighter. Her outlook is fantastic and I can't imagine what being in her shoes is like.
One advantage to being an author of fiction is that we can imagine ourselves in someone else's shoes…our characters.
Ron