Prose Poem: How to cook an old boot.

 

Start with an old boot.

One that has marinated

in all the seasons until

it is mellowed and ripe:

Winter pips.

Spring wattles.

Summer folly.

Autumn mopery.

Gently slide the boot into

a kettle of enraged water.

Add the good wishes of

the boys down at the plant

and a back scratcher from the

Welcome Wagon.

(These items cannot be purchased

online, so if you haven't got them

locally take the next flight to Belgium

and stay there; you're of no further use here.)

Just before serving, 

add a dollop of sour cream

and a set of ground up spats.

For a thicker sauce, rummage through

your laundry for a pair of dirty socks

to make a bouquet garni.

Never serve boiled boot to friends

who complain about their allergies

or relatives that don't know your middle

name.

In Peru there is a charming tradition

of letting the children walk around in

the boot after it has been cooked

in order to  

loosen the hobnails. 

Leftover boot can be hung

on the clothesline to dry out;

it will then last for many years.

Probably longer than your marriage

or current job.

And then you'll probably be reduced

to eating shoe laces and KIWI polish.

But hey -- 

New Pains Bring New Opportunities.

Happy New Year.