Marie-Louise Hogan
The Boot
My heart dropped into my stomach.
His empty boot. The sight of it.
Curled up by the use of his wide,
Even-tempered foot.
Brown leather upper parting
From the sole like a smile,
Mocking me from the corner of the room.
Its laces hanging, defeated,
Two arms slack by its sides,
Dirtied, untied
Splattered with mud from walking
Up a Stratford hill.
He could have sprouted
Like a gnarly barked tree from that boot.
I wouldn’t have flinched.
I should have flung it out the window
Towards his head as he walked up the street,
But I’d have missed him of course,
As I do.
Page(s) 16
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