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Circle Fashion .
. .
By
Ellaraine Lockie
When I was little I lived
in cowboy boots
And pretended to be Roy Rogers
Wouldn’t remove them for bed
Because I read Roy slept in his
Detested dresses because they
disagreed with boots
So my mom said
Especially assaulting somehow
for Sunday services
As if the boots would wage war
with the rest of my wardrobe
right there in God’s house of worship
Why couldn’t I at least
be like Dale Evans
Rein in my irreverent ways
Wear those pretty pink pointy boots
Not the brutish masculine
horse-manure-color kind
That Uncle Hank hid
under his bed every birthday
One boy-size larger than last year’s
Then Uncle Hank died
And Linda the cheerleader
asked if I had to wear
my big brother’s worn boots
Which squeezed me into sandals
and pumps for several decades
Bearing other people’s brands
Burned in by fear of freedom
from following the herd
Until memory’s bleeding bunions
replaced the manacles with boots
Cowboy modeled and carefree worn
Without a single combative consequence
Published
by Tickled by Thunder in 'The Year's Best
Poetry,' Vol. 10, 2003.
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