You’ll find dirty boots piled in all corners.
With stinking breaths, they tell tales
of unusual places—
stories that make hairs stand and faces straight
and leave a listening flower droop-headed.
If you survive the stink, listen close,
there’s a particular boot–high-top, laceless,
so naked at its green mouth, like a house without a roof,
with frayed coverings that convince you it’s been everywhere
and kicked everything in its path.
One day my father scavenged the rubles,
and pulled the green-mouthed boot out,
like a frigging magician.
When he came back home, late at night,
and placed it back among the pile,
I could swear it grinned at me.
Step in, I heard it say, because soon
there’ll be no room for you.
