It's Boot Wearing Time

Perhaps I'm a bit early,
but I have these fantastic black boots
that click-clack on the cobble stones.

And when wet leaves scatter themselves about
along my path, I imagine their colors
reflect along the buckles.


How many 20, 30, 40 of thousands of people
must die before I become emotionally inured
to the constant suffering around me?

My time will come. I suspect. And although I may not
suffer a tsunami, hurricane, or earthquake . . .
death will come to me in its own cloud of ruin.

Until that moment arrives, I must blithely walk
in these clickity-clack heels,
up and down the cobble stone paths
watching the seasons change
and trying not to trip.