If pressed, I’d say I appreciate their size above all: the ability to
make big feet seem even bigger to the female eye, style points,
showing out being close but secondary concerns, that classic
LV insignia set in diamond patterns on the vulnerable brown
leather I safeguard like smooth skin around my elbows. And
if in desirable company, I vow not to snitch on myself as to
their second-hand acquisition from the depths of my dad’s
closet, a past gift from she to he that took into account the
sheer mass of tissue and bone his foot had become after
the accident. But in my defense, there’s no such thing as
a thief among family. Besides, what betrays his old-school
sensibilities simply makes me a bigger deal inside my own
head and so much is coming down to self-confidence; height
and weight, like in a boxing match: these boots give me both
in two ways. Boxers over briefs? Bet on that. Belt buckled but
below boxers’ elastic band by an inch at least, teeth and tongue
brushed thoroughly to abate bad breath:

                                                                       I tell myself tonight.
            Tonight is the night I finally body up her body to the beat,
            plant my feet into the basement’s cold cement like a weed
            while smoke gossips through the room. I’ll let her throw her
            weight around a little bit, on me, where I want it, winding
            in circular motion, her hips on swivel, one hand holding her
            arm in the air, the other where her figure curves inward like
            the top of a harp or the side of an hourglass. And that makes
            some sense as, in a way, I’m begging for time: five minutes,
            ten minutes, fifteen, praying that I don’t bowl anybody over
            when she throws it back to Juvenile or a juke mix since I’ve
            sworn off the wall’s support in order to prove something, that
            I’d found balance between the two sides of a man; like a coin
            stood on its rim, me, primed to slip into the slot of a jukebox
            and make it play whatever dirty-ass song I wish to hear, but
            I’ll be damned, what if I’m just a boy trying to dance in his
            daddy’s shoes? What if it shows even in the dark and this
            footwear doesn’t? Am I really ready to be so… naked?