The football boot

Laces thinning from tying self too tightly,
tongue big and silent, mud dry and stuck
in any cracks it found. The garage is cold
enough for it to remember wet Sundays,
a chance to forget about the things it
couldn’t do and the people who thought
it was pointless. The concrete floor makes it
feel like a tap dancing shoe, clip clopping
through a changing room with mates
who wouldn’t be here forever, but had hearts
for enough time to tell it to kick while it can.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

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