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