The Split Seam

The box, it smelled of paper,

old wood. And dust.

I pulled out his boots. They scraped,

dried mud, a little rust

on the eyelets. Years.

The leather, cracked, a tongue

of hard, dark hide.

One seam, where it once sprung

open, was roughly sewn.

Thick thread, a darker shade.

Like a mouth, speaking low.

He fixed it. No parade.

Just the mend. A way to stay.

This life, always on his feet.

Always mending what gave way.

What's left is incomplete.