Poetry is a single red rubber boot

found in a driveway.

Run over and sodden, it is a piece

of what its owner left behind.

For those who jam it onto their foot,

expecting it to be of the same use

it once was, it can offer nothing.

But for those who seek

only to admire, to imagine,

to wipe off the dirt and mud

and see beyond what's visible,

it is invaluable.

Poetry is an old rubber boot

with a name inked inside.

Endearing, if that someone

is a child who penned their

name in all its slanted,

backwards,

Illegible handwritten glory

onto the felty interior.

Mysterious, if that someone

is an old sea captain whose wife once

lovingly scripted their last name

onto its waterlogged surface

before his last journey.

Smelly, if otherwise.

Poetry is a holey rubber boot,

lovingly worn to death

and patched back to life with rubber cement.

We step into it, protected,

then into the world's puddles

that we were too afraid to venture into

without our covering.

In our holey rubber boots,

we can observe,

kick our feet in the air, splash about

without fear of getting wet!

We can tiptoe on the edge of

our looking glasses without

fear of getting cut.

We can jump and soar from cliffs

with our parchment wings without

fear of the fall.

We envision without blindness;

we live without living.