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Shoe-Polish Marcel Beyer Polish,
in perfect state, cracked
on the edges, brittle
yet black, steady now they
rub them, Bert, Bertha, Lenny, Martha, Walter
from their early age, shine those shoes, evenly,
burnish them to perfection it
holds, it holds not, but the leather already glistens,
broken shoe laces, I'm half an ancestor, half
a supporting role with black fingernails and
a half sentence on the lips, for in a fully false
place, that's how one rubs the time, like me,
away, over the steady worn out skin, brittle
tone, one rubs more, ever more,
steady sound, the other half, and one leaves the
skin, tanned, soft and
finally there, where shined leather
disappears, I am not there, I am stowed away in the box. o translated by Natalija Grgorinic & Ognjen Raden
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