In His Shoes
“Try walking in my shoes,”
Dad would mutter to no one in particular.
He’d sit alone most evenings, blending
into the gloom he created behind drawn shades.
I remember thinking how hard it would be
to lug around his heavy ol’ work boots all day.
I’d pretend not to notice his tears
as the cigarette glow lit up Dad’s eyes.
Mom said it was the alcohol that made him cry.
But I figured it was those ol’ boots that made him sad,
’cause one day he took them off and left ’em behind
and flew away with angels.
When I put them on, they made me sad too.
Now, at the end of a tough day
I sit alone and think about Dad.
Did this storm which darkens my mind
once surge through his?
Had he felt this same tangle of live wires
sparking moments of madness too?
I stand and ten thousand yesterdays
heap around my feet like heavy boots.
I drag myself across the room
imagining what it would be like
to step out of this pile of skin and bone and soul.
Instead, I pour another drink — kill another day,
and wonder again why gin always makes me cry.
