Seepage

The leather was supposed to hold.

I trusted the welt and the heavy black lace,

until the street gave way to the cold

and the gutter-wash found a dark, hollow space.

It started as a nip at the toe,

a localized shiver that wouldn't go dry.

Now every step is a squelch and a throe,

a rhythmic and sodden and rhythmic lie.

I have to walk into the room and be loud,

pretending my footing is solid and grand.

But I’m standing there, shaking and proud,

with a swamp in my shoe and a shake in my hand.