A Boot-ist Meditation

Alone at the table I sit, pen-in-hand, remembering. I'm writing a eulogy. For my boots. They were my best, most rugged pair of fire boots: Danners, with thick rubber soles and knowing, thorned-in scratches. Victims of a brutal crime: an unannounced cleaning spree at my parents' house. It is a eulogy, also, to the migratory …

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