2 poems, by mark james andrews

boots made for walking

When the smoke
I had to look back

at her licking her
index fingertip
and her thumb

sitting on the heater
at the window
with a dry cough

unable to shuffle
through the bills
and shut off notices

through glass grime
sun now cloud hidden

whereabouts unknown
in an old hotel
down by the mud river

somebody’s cinnamon girl
sent away to stay
here for a while

her cowgirl boots made
for walking now standing
neatly by the door.

who are you?

I can see for miles
up on this mound of piled ice
while skipping stones at the sun

checking the runners
out in the open rolling waves
set free by the melt

peering in at the pinch hitter
for Moon the Loon
the guy overdosed on goofballs

so now Who walking on water
floats up to the plate
and I’ve been working on my slow

sidearm knuckle curve
because the over hand high hard one
hasn’t been fooling any Who

so I ditch the great arm slot myth
firing away with the magic angle
of 20 degrees

and Who goes down swinging
88 skips at the speed of light
fooled again

and Who are you?

Photo by Rachel Claire on Pexels.com

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