Hot Boots

You’re my best friend. You told me
to buy the hot boots
so I did.
Yesterday I saved on soup.
I double-bluffed a man
into buying me dinner
on Tuesday.
I can make it to December this way.
Walking under Central bridge
on soup day I wanted
to slap myself hard in the face.
No boots = bad date, my brain
works this way.

They sit pristine
by my off-key guitar.
They will never ever ride a horse.
They’re insurance, cashback
in case November runs out
of steam.

When smouldering charcoal hugs
cowboy calves, I can step out
of time and spend
cool bedroom hours in trance.
They change the way
of my hips on their hinges.
Everyone agrees.

A popstar, an it girl
stomp-twirling in leather –
a poet in half-price
overpriced boots
I’ll love them for ever
(not as much as I love
you, but hug them
as hard) and still
have                  for