It’s not that they don’t know how to bounce
or how to tippy-toe,
not that their ground grip is slack;
it’s their attitude.
Sneakers, sandals, espadrilles
largely do what they’re meant to.
Bad boots never seem to get around to that.
They will ramble blindly into the moat,
heedless of not being high enough.
They headlong for nettles and brambles,
roadside attractions, truckstop diners;
they want to stop and stare
in front of signs proclaiming “Lotto, Beer & Ammo” -
bloody hell, it’s embarrassing.
And the things they drag home!
I tell them, boots are made for walking.
Bad boots never listen, never learn.
If you have any comments on this poem, Jane Røken would
be pleased to hear from you.