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Donna Patitucci
I longed for a pair of real Doc Martens:
big black sturdy boots with the trademark yellow stitches
encircling the edge of the soles.
But being so skinny,
I had to sttle for a slightly more petite pair:
clunky just the same, but shy of ridiculous-looking.
Maybe I thought I'd be tougher in some big black boots.
Maybe I though I could stand up to him, wearing threatening shoes.
The first time I wore them, I found us eye to eye
our boots staring each other down on the sidewalk below.
I focused and told him he didn't matter,
what happened didn't matter.
My boots are finally breaking in;
the leather creases with every journey I set them on.
The shine is dying from being stepped on
by greater, more menacing boots,
from being splached with too much beer.
I too am losing my shine,
tarnish a bit every time I'm trampled on.
And every time his eyes refuse to meet mine anymore,
I realize:
His boots are bigger than mine.
