Boots #2

Black leather wrapped itself around the mind              
Of tall demure heel that signaled “bottom”                
In the attachment to a knock-kneed material                  
Of rationing impulse hollowing out for yours:
(Pause)         
A righteously indignant riding style                  
That had yet to mend its indie ways                
Despite being slightly older than me                
Time shrugging casualties                
Were occasionally shared                
Like some kind of                
broad-spectrum antibiotic                
Under direction of “a cold”                
Forming barrier between us                
And for a minute I could feel you                
Coming up through                  
That empty hole inside of me                
Only to push you back in place                
Like strap/molasses                
Popping out of character                
Each time I got a different part                
Of the night under control                
Here came something else                
Inconveniently                
In an atmosphere                
Full of wardens and stop lights                
Using “honor” as a check point                
Moving through            
The dungeon's badlands              
Threatening stop and go                
Across the threshold to you                
And it hurted                
Only to be absolved of its                
Philosophy                
In small increments of time                
Which was just enough                
To whip                
My imaginings into…                
Something “other” than themselves.