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.