What a fine couple they make, these boots of mine.
Matt black, with scuffs and scrapes; they have served
me well, having only changed the laces once in five years.
Inside, they’re a little worn, but the new insoles have helped.
Feeling a traitor, I strolled into the Doc shop, to perhaps
purchase a new pair. If boots could cry, I could’ve jumped in
the puddles. Imagine my dismay, when I was told that
the black Cecilia boot has been discontinued; I’m sure
that I heard squeals of delight from below. I left the shop,
and my feet somehow felt as if they had wheels on; a
lightness and ease as I walked down Princess street.
Although getting old, these worn out boots have acquired
an air of confidence that I haven’t seen in them for years.
They seem to know that they are irreplaceable. Sometimes
they whisper to each other, especially as they sit next to
the monkey boots, who have never managed to replace them,
as my essential comfortable companions. I’m sure I heard the sound of,
‘Oh Cecilia, you’re breaking my heart.’ Who plays music at 2am?