my shoes (a sonnet)

 my doc martens have a dozen holes in the soles

and my tread so work that i slip down my driveway

i reach the bottom and instinctively check my pulse,

my heart is beating how it should, my lungs still inflate. 

 

my socks are damp and smy hands scraped by gravel

my shoes, by any other standards, are beyond spent.

Light is reflecting too brightly against the snow to see at all

i stop walking for fear ill slip if my eye catches the ices glint. 

 mt toes are numb and there's stone embedded unto my hand

my docs are more grey now than they are black

the knees of my jeans now have a large dark stain

three cars stare at me as they drive past.

 

my boots are beyond reasonable repair

and yet I'll wear them, and brave my driveway with (slightly) more care.