All I think of when I see these boots
is a hand full of dimes
squeaking at me through the leather
and broken soles that seem to grind
my feet to the ground
All I see is a row of wooden picture frames
and I count them, subtract them, divide them
into the hours that mark my sanity. Because I
am aware of time and can add, subtract, multiply
and divide it I breathe through the cracks
in my soles where nobody can see me. I can
breathe into my soul with the sound of socks
slushing in my ears and the heartbeat of boots
on polished concrete, rhythmically stepping
from one duty to the next.
And with the sound of the whistle preceding,
I lop off decades of time between integers.
Copyright 2017, Ronald J. Hoffman, Roaming Snyder Publishing.