BOOTS

For years and years, they occupied,

A place beside my bed,

Patiently waiting for my hands,

To reach for them instead

Of tennis shoes, or oxfords plain,

Or even just bare feet,

And for a very long, long time,

They still looked really neat.

But many years of being worn,

Finally made them look abused,

When actually it was nothing more,

Than years of being used.

I remember when they were brand new,

And such a sight to see,

Brown with stitching all around,

They soon were part of me.

And they adjusted to my feet,

I wore them so proudly,

Peeking shyly, from beneath

My jeans, for all to see.

Just like old friend who’s always there,

We shared good times and bad,

The scars that I put on them,

Must have made them very sad.

For they went from something special

To being worn each day,

And later still, when they looked like

They should be tossed away,

I kept them there, in honored place,

Right beside my bed,

Choosing not to throw them out,

Pulled on and worn instead.

But finally time came when I faced,

The fact that they were done,

I held them in my hands and said,

“My friends, the day has come

When you must be put far away,

Your days of use are done.

Your soles are bare for all to see,

With holes where there were none.”

So I placed them with much tender thought,

And memories galore,

In trash that soon would be picked up,

Outside my kitchen door.

Showing use and bearing scars,

Inflicted by a friend,

Still I loved those darned old boots,

Right to the very end.

© 2003 Loree (Mason) O’Neil

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