In My Father's Room There's Little Room
You'll find dirty boots piled in all corners.
With stinking breaths, they tell tales
of unusual places—
stories that make hairs stand and faces straight
and leave a listening flower droop-headed.
If you survive the stink, listen close,
there's a particular boot--high-top, laceless,
so naked at its green mouth, like a house without a roof,
with frayed coverings that convince you it's been everywhere
and kicked everything in its path.
One day my father scavenged the rubles,
and pulled the green-mouthed boot out,
like a frigging magician.
When he came back home, late at night,
and placed it back among the pile,
I could swear it grinned at me.
Step in, I heard it say, because soon
there'll be no room for you