This poem is a parody of one on Valpo Review. If you have read the source, you will probably recognize it.
With 14 lines and one instance of endline repetition, I'm guessing this is a bastardized sonnet. I could go on and on about how much I dislike the original, but I might offend some.
This one is for Jack.
SHOELESS AT THE SWEATSHOP
Shoes on the bench. Toe the perfect
line of grey Mister Marks, the harsh
taskmaster of red blood-stained fingers:
stretch their white knuckles right into an arch.
Contemplate your knobby knees
covered in undone black leather piece work.
Weep at the weeks and years
lost this way, where two feel like ten.
Stare at indecipherable symbols: you could
learn to read them in school, not here. Sore
young feet desirous of first shoes; cuts,
bruises aching to heal; feet
trapped under the workbench; feet
bare of shoes.
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