Boots On A Wednesday Poem by Carmen Angelina

These boots,
Oh these,
no,
Never,
I never wear these boots
On a Wednesday.
Their brown and
Begging for attention,
And I am not that
You know...
Begging for attention.
My Mother told me
To never
Test the vernacular of a man;
The sophisticated
Working of a man's
Thoughts put into word.

No,
These boots would make him talk
Would make him walk
Right into my grasp
And then what?

Nights of passion
And undeniable lust
On granite counter tops?
Or funky,
Freaky,
episodes on a blanket
In the middle of slow midnight,
With white wine
And intertwined madness,
As chocolate hallucinogen
Melts on our tongues.

Two people
Wasting time and space
Without a care
Or wish
Or risk
For cessation.

Or it could be worse,
So much worse;
My tears could
Form the river
He drinks from
My heart
The ground he pummels.
Idle nights waiting
Pulling at time,
Begging the minutes to pass,
And hours to disappear
For some evidence of his
Existence;
Even if just to
Speak his hatred.
Any memory of him
Would disperse
My being into tiny
Fragments;
Like a balloon bursting full of confetti,
My inner self strewn across
Some unknown floor;
It would become a puzzled menagerie
trying to piece together
the happenings
of a Saturday night;
everyone
watching
And mocking
judging
and talking.

A disappearing act
Of tangible words
And body,
And me all alone
Trying to make sense
of the pieces
Make sense
Of how it came to this.

No,
No these
Boots,
They stay
Exactly away
From danger
Exactly away
From heartache;
From unbridled
Mistake or tragic remedy.