Cecil is a good ole boy
And that's no understatement.
His right arm does a Mr. Miaggi-spit-shine job	
	-wax on, wax off-
while his left stub
moves up and down on a hinge,
pumping energy into the right.
-I think I can I think I can I think I can-
-Brotha, you can do anything you put your mind to-
His head bowed, 
His eyes glaring,
Mouth wide grinning
	-yes ma'am, yes ma'am-
at the shine his good arm 
creates on patent leather. 
His friend, Mr. Ford,
plays a harmonica (tunes no one recollects),
        -sometimes I feel like a motherless child...
        sometimes I feel like... –
shining shoes.
A brown-eyed woman,
the color of nothing 
stands from the milk-crate,
hands him loose change, found under her sofa's cushion,
and starts the week with shined shoes.