More of My Poetry

Boots Under the Bed

I tried you on,
like new shoes; sharp,
clean and proud.
It's a straight line,
but I never walked this
pale road before.

It ain't always been,
blue skies and bright faces.
It's been some
wearied worn looks,
half-hearted smiles
and eyes that crinkle at the edges.

(Didn't plan for much -
life told me what to do
in small, angry whispers
- and pauses for -
uncomfortable silences.)

My old shoes had holes
worn from bad habits
and scarred from brushes
with the stones and people
that littered my path.

I thought I would wear them forever.
They were mine, all mine,
they grew on me like weeds,
and I didn't care much
about the way they looked
to others.

The open road seems a damn fine place
'til the weather turns bad,
and home calls like a mother,
at the door, waiting for
a young boy to come in from the rain.

I came in from my troubles,
took off my old, lonely boots,
threw 'em under a bed,
and left them hidden in the dark.

For you.