From the gold mines of Southern Africa to the inner city doorways of New York - there’s a boot dance
A poem dedicated to those buried with their boots.
1
Who will tell the people
those black rubber boots
cover up your rottin feet
always soaked
in quagmire of rat invested waters
deep in the belly of the African earth
digging for gold
you cannot buy
it’s cheaper, the mine captain says
give ‘em boots – never drain the mine
some say you were bound in a line
and – even when you slipped
into stinking mud
dead
you never broke the chain
what you didn’t know
was that a young kid
was dancing his way out
of those black rubber boots
to the stages of New York
and you asked them to bury you in yours
so they wouldn’t see your feet
2
you’ll find him on the corner of Madison and Fifth
discarded in doorways – in army coat
feet fused to stench leather boots
under yesterdays New York Times
the one he didn’t read – instead
he kissed the moon goodnight
wrapped his arms around his neck so nobody
could slit his throat – and kept warm
he says his name’s Steve
he’s from New York – he’s 24
pen-knifed graffiti on his back
it made headline news only
because it was a red Mustang pound to pulp
a young guy
in old army boots
yelling and dancing on the hood
cops staring, crowds cheering, swaying
to the drumming boot rhythm
they shot in the air for him to stop
instead, he soared, as if he had hawk wings
met the flying bullet through the air
came down hard on red steel
red blood – stained
feathers folded
under an old army coat.