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The heavy, booted feet crunch away
leaving tracks in the snow
flattening a path from my front door to the driveway
I long to call to you
to tell you to put your coat on,
or at least a hat, for God’s Sake
but I know it’s too late for that.
Insult to injury, or some other meaningless clichéd phrase.
Your footprints are large and strong, like a man’s,
but the tears trapped behind your eyelids are a boy’s.
I feel like the slush beneath your boots.

23 March 2000