In Boots

In Boots

I love the boots the women wear

                These days, few and fleeting as they are,

And as temporary as the leather is

                Buckled, wrinkled, strapped, knee high with flared

Tops, like the boots of Wellington’s heavy cavalry

                At Waterloo.  One is overwhelmed by the

Charge of their beauty; the flashing of brass and steel
                The rippling of manes and plumes and pennants
Lance and sword tips glittering.  Sabered, speared, trampled

                In some sunken lane in the rolling Belgian

Countryside, rich with crops, little stone cottages, and

                Red and yellow flowers.  And the ruddy girls who say, “Oui,”
When asked for a drink of water, or of wine, or a kiss. 

As temporary as that, and the life of a Napoleonic

                Infantryman, or the fashions of this season,

Or breath, and the joyful hope of morning.

 

I would have told the barista at the

Argo Tea Café at the corner of Madison and Franklin

Just east of the Chicago River that her charcoal

Boots were lovely, but the children would have looked

At me askance, despite the oil paintings of

The buildings of the city hanging on the walls

The blue of the October day, the freshness of the

Lake air and the thrill of crowds, cameras, and rich stone.