My Boots

My boots
they get me from A to B
And follow me faithfully over the seas,
Airplane rubber lending me flight,
When no one else will
They’ll hold me tight
To my path, tied to my mast, right
To my future and through to my past,

But the leather is worn, the
Rubber has holes and
When I walk in a puddle it
Soaks through to my soles, they’re
Quite temperamental, they temper the candle
Lit under my left foot and melt the ice-cube
Underneath my right, they hold
Me in balance so please forgive
My reaction to that quite rude statement
You made the other day, that these
Crummy old things ought to be tossed
Away for good for they’ve reached the limits
Of hipster viability and if the fashion gods
Had any will left in me I’d smarten, follow
Your tips, grab me some Martens, but please
Sir. See, Sir, Mr. Docs, Sir, that
These here boots mean lots and lots to a boy
Who grew up surrounded by crops whose dream
Was to keep walking and to not ever stop,
Whose soul is beginning to grow thin.

But I look at each deep-fryer blotch, each
Mark on her or him and I find that
Each stain on my heart is reflected
In their skin,
You can find remnants of each fatal low
Buried deep inside each toe and spot
The joyous wrinkles from each crescendo and
I’m forever grateful for that poor fated animal
Who was slain for this purpose: to trample
The earth with me, in my service, and
I hope I’ve given them a new life away
From the mechanized misery and
Strife that they’ve witnessed and

When I do decide – on my own accord – to
Put them out to rest, I’ll feel
It in my deep heart’s core that
For you, my dear, I tried my very best.