High Noon

You shove your feet into the flaking boots,

sole peeling, they slouch and rest at your knees.

Pretending you’re Butch Cassidy—

but you are the Sundance Kid,

with your foot lifting against the vamp,

almost slipping out with every step.

You saunter through the den and down the hall,

popping your hip out—

sagging when Mom chastises that you're scuffing the floor;

stomping the boot, swearing it wasn't you.

Begging to wear them out—

they're not too big!

Going to Rookies with Dad

demolishing a plate of wings and a Shirley Temple

with extra cherries.

The waiter started giving them to you in a bowl.

Now I reach for those cowboy boots—

knowing they’ll barely reach my calf.

And my foot will lift only slightly

against the vamp.