I arrived at home a pure soul
but I retreat a mosaic of soles.
Yes, I have been stepped on,
I have been led and brought on, spat on,
had the rod on, been beat and been broke.
At least you like my lyric.
At least your bootmarks no longer ache
and glow hurt-red. Marks, my words
when they pelt the ground, raindrops
falling but not on my head;
they cool my wounds. Even nature
is sympathetic. It gives you a sun today
and an excuse to burst from your dungeon.
I say take that chance. There is a want
for freedom there. Boot-march is a twisted
soundtrack there and it has gotten old;
the bright thoughts of bright leaves
and the dear faces of the strollered children
all wide-open and enamored with everything,
are writing you a new set of lyrics.