Purple Finch Press

“You’ve got some boots to fill.” 
	Work boots, 
worn, ripped, and weathered.
	Faux leather,
	the kind that must be broken in,
	that pinch and itch,
	stitches still too tight,
	gnawing on the tendons. 

	But those boots were used for more than work,
	used for walking with the weight,
	of alcohol burning in his belly,
	the rage of who he had become. 
	Who he had disappointed
in his desire for dull relief.
	First of all the boots,
	made for work, 
not drunken wandering. 

“You’ve got some boots to fill.”
	Still too big, too bulky.
	Still a toddler, taking them when no one is watching, 
	to wear in the mirror and wonder
	if they will ever truly fit. 
	Too much space between the toes and steel tip,
	still used to kick, to cripple, 
	to wound, and wander further away. 
	Eventually you consider
	are those boots really worth filling?