“Good news,” the lady in the charity shop says,
“Someone your size has recently died.”
She holds up a pair of brown boots
ideal for my feet. They are well-worn,
the laces like calloused fingers.
The soles have a weekend of mud in them
remembering a man who didn’t stay at home
when the weather tried to convince him to.
I picture him – thighs as long as mine,
shoulders just as narrow but determined –
walking across the roof of this shop,
each click of his heel tapping out
an SOS message to keep moving forward.

Carl Burkitt 2024