Stone-swollen with sand, 

Water spit from rivers,

Migrated against the land,

But I ain’t got no boots.

Stitched leather fingers 

dipped in ancestral tears,

Raw like hiding still lingers,

I ain’t got no boots.

Callous with coarse cotton,  

Shackled and chained together, 

Damped from the bottoms,

But, I ain’t got no boots.

Drenched under fires, 

Cold, beaten with authority, 

Towered high pyres,

I said. I ain’t got no boots.

Too delicate for the day, 

Stolen away at night,

Tip-toed glass roofs,

Winged-birds without flight,

I have no boots.

Your shoes– shiny, leather, fine,

buckles, clasps, no straps –mine, 

Beneath your heel is where I heel I hope I’ll heal sometime.

Millions’ silent cries, 

Remnant ash, the rubber, 

The child’s shoe beside,

You have my boots.

Can you hear me? 

I’m talking to you. 

You said I could, 

but ain’t got no boots.

Published by Myke Thompson

Myke Thompson is a humorist, storyteller, and an occasional piece of human trash who believes the best way to learn, educate, and experience the world is through the written word.

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