B O O T S

Where did the beautiful deception vanish off to

On this cold, wondrous night of infidelity?

Where did those staggering footsteps lead

After they slipped into the street,

Joining the slosh of black snow and dirt?

It isn’t home.

They never came home.

_____________________

But if not home,

If not a house covered in trembling tiles,

Crooked stones sloughing off their outer layer,

Where did they go before dipping into the cemetery

And saying goodnight

To the dark corners of spring where thawing horrors

Were casually revealed with apologies and crimson rose petals?

_____________________

The bobbing hats weaving in and out of carriage traffic

Could never have a semblance of a clue.

Neither could the tightly buttoned jackets of solicitors

Understand the meandering path of the boots.

But I let the polluted air sweep through my hair

And my jacket has long been in disrepair.

I can see the end and the beginning, the journey.

_____________________

It started with the aggressive lean of the trees to the East.

Tips of tall branches turned their gaze to the row of homes,

The slum where men wept and women clawed

At the bricks while their children

Teethed on coal and sucked poisoned milk

Into their starving, hollow bellies

With Cheshire grins splitting open their mouths.

_____________________

The grey clouds followed the lean,

Brushing wet fingertips across the canopy of leafless trees.

The vulnerable underbelly of the clouds lowered,

Covering the pebbled road with grey puffs of fog.

The trees shuddered. The clouds settled. Darkness smothered the day.

Below the clouds, breathing in the smoke of a freshly rolled cigarette,

He watched.

_____________________

His mouth was a chimney, the plumes of smoke curling from his lips

Like the broken promise of sunshine.

The lit embers glowed brighter as he slurped the tobacco

Into his lungs and pushed it out from his mouth

With the thoughtless rhythm of life

Until a ferocious gale knocked the fag from his fingertips

Into the dribbling liquid of the gutter.

_____________________

And then, there was silence.

The clouds paused suddenly and the last carriage had turned

Down some rarely used alley filled with human filth.

No clop of hooves thunked against his ears.

The children had ceased their wailing.

Even the low, humming drone of the factory pouring itself

Into the black river had settled into a comfortable quiet.

_____________________

It was never so still, so tranquil.

The man’s dirty fingers trembled without the noise there

To swaddle him in blankets of ignorance.

The arrhythmic beat of the drum in his chest tripped, stuttered,

And finally stopped searching for its beat as it relaxed into normal

Sinus rhythm; a breath of clean air hissed past his lips.

It shattered with an ugly cry of pleasure.

_____________________

That high-pitched moan rattled the windows on the street,

Banged furiously against his temples

As grey eyes slowly blinked back the pressure of grief

Squealing like a kettle in his chest.

Outside himself, he turned to the candle-lit window

Floating in the darkness high above the muddied stoop of his home.

Dancing in the glass were two undulating shadows.

_____________________

The revelation that he had yet to enter his home slapped him

Hard and fast like the sound of skin on skin seeping through

The drafty windowpane because at long last, he was early.

Early enough to spend a promised sunny afternoon with his love,

His life, his wife, the reason behind the dirty nails and soiled suit.

Early enough to cradle her clean cheeks between his rough hands

And kiss her until he forgot his woes.

_____________________

But she was occupied with the attentions of another.

Dreaming and dancing and seducing in their home.

The bed he had carved as a wedding.

The window he fixed after sixteen-hour work shifts.

Did she eat meals with this stranger too? Break bread that he had

Slaved to earn, stolen at times, to keep her stomach quiet

And her corners soft with the pleasures of life?

_____________________

A low voice grunted out a word, something that sounded akin

To love that made the man’s world spin; that ratcheted a rope

Around his ribcage and pulled until he could no longer breathe.

He staggered sideways, slipping over the cobbled walkway and

Slamming into the wall hard enough to give them pause.

That voice, melodic and rough, gently stern, starred in his childhood.

It was the sound of laughter, of summer and shenanigans.

The sound of his brother.

_____________________

He ran.

Drinking heaving gulps of air with his coattails flapping wildly

In the frigid cold wind behind him, he moved through the streets

As little more than a black blur, pressing sloppy bootprints in his wake.

Meaningless emptiness seized his heart and squeezed

Until the sour tang of iron filled his mouth and tears,

Warm and salty, trailed lines down his cheeks, spilling from his chin.

_____________________

And so he stood amidst the headstones,

Running a warm, leathered hand over the cool, wet marble

Before collapsing to his knees in the mud and weeping across

Some tombstone he hadn’t even bothered to read.

His stomach clenched around the acidic sorrow, threatening

To toss up his small crumb of a meal, the one he had stashed

In his pockets for her, his heartbeat.

_____________________

The man shook his head, scattering raindrops and the empty dream

Of golden rays of sunshine and honey eyes crinkling at the corners

With the laughter only he thought he could bring.

Beneath it all, he broke, crumbling against the white tombstone and

Smudging the dirt of his life all across the regal name carved into stone.

The tears stopped as a flickering, fading smile replaced the downturned lips.

It was over, wasn’t it?

_____________________

Silver Serpent Books

_____________________