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Poetry: Old Boots 

Old boots that brought me blisters in Prague,
yet far from doubt, I wore them all the more,
for they set out at once to match my feet’s strange shape
and soon with massage and oil and fond regard
their intimate creases formed a lovely map,
and they push back on me just as I push on them.
What simple fetish joy to walk upon them now
and still to shape each other every day!
Though it may be that down below,
these dark boots, like sales clerks d’un certain age,
trade beauty tips and cigarette-voiced bons mots
with thick nails that themselves
have taken a bit of a beating from our duet-work
as well as from the unforgiving concrete of the daily walk.

Speaking of...

  • Old Boots, a poem by William Seaton


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