Ivan Donn Carswell Poems

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My thoughts are like the boots randomly arrayed
in the rack outside the window, some in pairs neatly
stacked, comfortably worn with a relaxed air of
confidence, some scattered in patterns of bizarre
relationships, one in Benson’s den under guard from
thought predators he fears plagiarized and stole
its partner’s soul. While I find it endearing
it involves a change in enterprise, his goal
in the past has mainly been slippers.
Of some thoughts I cannot recall
when I last wore them – thoughts which were
surely not my own, bearing marks of relentless use,
depicting an air of docile utility.
I find no shoes of flippant promise
or vacuous bent, no footwear meant
for climbers and schemers of high places,
no lofty thoughts for perilous ascent.
I survey the paucity of choices displayed,
aware of my thoughts keeping pace easily
with my pedestrian ambitions.
© I.D. Carswell

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