Poetry- Boots

Boots

I wanted to wear the boots,

but I did not want them to be

a fashion statement.  I wanted to earn them, to be the kind of person

that wore those boots.

So I tried them on.  To see how they felt.

My mother liked men who wore boots like that.

And I liked my mother.  I felt

strong,

useful—  I thought

“A person who wears boots like these ought

to feel at ease with a hammer.”

So I got the boots.  And I got a hammer.

I wanted to be the kind of useful person

who would need a hammer.

I wore the boots

to do

true things—  clean gardens,

and plant seedlings,

and water young shrubs.  To build things.  I remembered my father

with his new boots.  He polished them.  Gave them oil.

He was very proud of those boots!

And I wanted to be proud of my boots too.

I wore those boots

until there were holes in them.

There was a kind of pride in wearing used up boots. 

I was given

the blessing of nature, of necessity,

of use

to buy new ones.

Now, I know I’m going to work

when I pull my boots out. 

And those who pay me

expect

a certain kind of shoe to be worn.  I told my wife,

“It’s like a uniform you have to wear.”

Then I recognized

that I did not want to where these boots every day.  I wanted to be free

from having to wear boots.  That there was a pleasure

in air

playing with your feet.  But, by then it felt strange

not to wear them.

Poetry- Coyote

Coyote

This table likes to wobble, and so

does the chair.  Hard to keep a sense

of focus

or balance.  I stop thinking about typing

and start paying attention

to gravity,

what an axis is, to the flute crying

of a coyote

slivering over these moonlight slopes.  I keep trying to fix it,

looking underneath, wiggling things— I want a good footing, but it’s a no go,

and the coyote, I didn’t know,

they make this sound,

a hollowing out that requires a moon.  It’s some sort

of deformed magic, or perhaps it is the floor,

or me…

for it does not shake

until I sit in it.  I decide to write after all— the birth

of dance rambles

up from the floor.  I ride it

as the heaving leads to words.