Falling, or In Luigi’s Shoes

 
Fall, my season is Fall
double-named and double-nasal.
Autumn. When the trees’
jewels spin freely in breezes

then fall. It’s boot time. Five pairs
crunching little yellow leaves
beneath me.

During the summer sales
I heard a woman say
she owned twelve pairs
and I felt myself

rage slightly. No one needs that many
—ah, but want

is another thing entirely—

yes, boots

are my pleasure too.
I have two pairs just of black

and as many booties, soot-colored
cuties. I buy simply from availability.
Such is my privilege: buy, wear briefly,
give away, new cycle.

They warm me to the knee
or higher, warn the jackals
of my arrival, protect me
against October blusters. They

make me tall. Boots
mean business,
Mom always said, hard on
the bilabial stops.

November, I watch leaves
of affordable housing. Fall. Leaves
of business start-up tax breaks. Fall. Leaves
of erased student loan debt. Fall. Leaving me

just boots to buy,
hearing myself
on Town Center Dr., puny
heels laced up destructive.
Yes, such business to do.
Yes, let’s take to our boots.

*

(Featured image from Pexels)