I Need Inserts

I have a fear of boots.
In the morning, before work, I stare deep
Hyperventilate
Almost at the thought of pushing my feet in.
Claustrophobia for my feet. As if, somehow,
This time, I won’t get a foot in. Unlike last time.
I’ll pass out from some arcane fear, staring down
Miles down
Through the haze not pushed away from coffee
Yet
In the dark, or almost-dark, alone in the hotel.

And even after the damn things are on, miles
Down
I have the dismal job of re-lacing them, from
All the holes I pulled out, from all the work
Undone, so I dance a loop all the way back up
From the bottom of the top of my boot all the
Way up the ankle
Somewhere near my calf, tie it off,
Stare miles down, and realize it’s loose.
In spite of buying size 10’s when every other style
Has me in 11’s, my foot is loose and shifty.

The impossibility of it adds to my fear, the
Illogic of it all: How a thing so tight and frightening
To fit on me
Ends up so loose and misleading.

I can’t even fill them in. (I thought of my father’s boots–)

I’ve lost some brutal irony in there somewhere
Stuffed in with my feet every morning
In the hotel, in the dark-almost-light I have a strange
Fear I never told anyone

I can’t wait to tear them off at night like a grotesque
Second skin (that doesn’t fit) I don’t respect the lace
The leather or the foot within just get it the fuck out.