Two black boots
leaning drunk against each other
like they just got home from a party.
Tough little boots, ankle high,
with zippers up the inside
and squared off toes.
These were the boots I craved in high school,
teased hair boots, white eyeliner boots,
hanging out a car window
at the Hempstead Drive In,
tapping the floor in the last stall
of the bowling alley bathroom.
I leaned on your shoulder, pulling them on
and our eyes met from my new height,
your hands holding my waist
like we were dancing.
Published in Poetry Super Highway
Photo by Camila Damásio on Unsplash