All this time
Life appears to be not so much about
but keeping hell at bay.
I’ve seen that I’m pushed along by the urge
Not to chase down the bus
and hop on mid-route
to catch up with the famous movie producer
to hand him my script
for a chance at the big time,
Not to karate-chop down five armed guards
to abort the nuclear bomb
preventing the annihilation of earth and all of humanity,
Not to save anyone.
I’m urged on by the chance to breathe a bit of clean air
amongst the smog and soot,
reducing the pollution
near my face and lungs,
to block a little space
between myself and the hell
that waits at my doorstep.
I’d like to say I’m improving
but it’s winter, and a cold one,
and I don’t get out much these days.
I cannot be certain
that I will even keep my new boots pristine
a couple times worn
past the day I unwrapped them.
I can only promise
I will not forget about the dirty trek
I took them thru—the towering wood trail
indented by dirt bike tracks and flanked by
ferns and fungi.
Once they’re dry,
I’ll pick out the caked dirt
with a butter knife
after they have sun-baked on the deck.
Shoes are for walking
and life is for living
and if I’m so graced with a pair of nice boots
I’m going out, and I’ll be back
when I’m good and ready,
yes, I’ll return.