Just The Boots

The gas station stall, door doesn't quite latch,

it swings open, then shuts with a catch.

Again, it's open, you just watch

the worn-out boots, a sorry patch

of someone else's floor.

And I'm not listening, not really.

But the crackle of a phone, muffled, clearly

a fight. A man's voice, tired, nearly

a whisper, but the words, they stick:

'Just tell them it was mine, quick.

I'll be out soon.'

The toilet flushes, a low moan.

The boots shuffle, the man's alone.

And the door swings back, showing the bone

of his ankle, as he steps out. I've known

that kind of tired, that kind of trick.