Did they just slip them off?
Did they lean over to untie?
Did they sit in the dirt and pull?
Did they help one another yank boots?
Possibly relief with a sigh was heard
after days and daze of walking.
Frayed laces and broken buckles.
Souls worn out on the edges
tossed onto the pile.
Settled in a pyramid, a mountain
so that from a distance its image
was distorted so.
It could have been a Pol Pot
Rwandan round down
a senseless tribal down, tribal down.
I look down at my shoes.
We look down on our shoes.
How did these pairs match up with humanity?
It wasn’t as easy as three clicks wishing they were home.
I will tie them tightly.
I will wear them lightly.
Oh, come and let us not wear out any more souls.
Oh, God help us pair them up again.
On bended knee lace one another’s up.
On bended decree vow to end this repetition of history.