waitress poems

Friday, May 20, 2005

AT THIRTY-SEVEN

I wake up longing for the sleek brown boots
I had in my twenties,
their suede as soft as baby seals
their heels so high I listed forward
like an unstable tower.

Balancing on those narrow peaks,
I swayed through town in a pair of jeans
sure that I could take what I wanted,
sure that nothing
would be taken from me.

Okay, the truth is I only pulled out
those silly boots a few times.
But how I miss knowing they were there
in the back of the closet
ready to stomp, to dance--

huddling together in the dark,
mute and hungry as forever.

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