A Recent Poem

Vincent

My boots stand alone

in the corner

as I try not to think

of Van Gogh’s ear.

Of how strange it would be

if I died,

and my left and right boot stayed 

cockeyed, at the same ready angle,

as jaunty as at the moment

I step away,

until this house falls down.

Heels still touching.

Edges rubbed a little bare

where I try to wiggle them off

without bending over.

Years from now

tungsten crampons I install

in the fall, will still be shining

under the soles, slightly arched,

ready for ice that always comes. 

Boots can wait forever.

They end each day that way

after the chores, in a room so quiet

you can hear a speck

of drying mud flake 

and fall to the mat.

That’s enough to make me think:   

it wasn’t crazy voices  

that tore him from his roots.

It was the presence of his absence  

still standing in his boots.