It’s on the left and bent left, damned thing,
by a shape of my vanity’s blue boot.
Am I not left enough?
Behind these blue boots are rough
unsuede shoes—
would have marched to Selma
in my fashion-faded denim red;
but something else was going
on that day. It wasn’t bunions or
anybody’s else’s business
but her youth and mine.

I am right tending and a Saint.
It’s how I resist, but
can only do martyr once
except in dreams and hopes
which I have lived much of
and rightly by.
What more is expected?

I’m flexible enough
to either way, and splint
to stop the lefty crook,
that bent is nothing meaning.
Well, sure. I may
rouge this rogue, but won’t
without a limp, a limp, a limp, a limp;
but the drift it’s symptom of—
in my blue boy boots—
marches on,
achy-agey bastard.
Is not blue left enough?

O, how the limp cripple on.
Left hrigh, lef hripe,

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