i wish i had a pair of chelsea boots
calf leather, pupil-black, slick to touch
pointed off at the the ends sharp as a grin
 
i’d tamp down my rage stamping down queen street
wielding my masculine axe fit to wound
rakish and coiffed and cool
i’d suck up all the air in the societal room
 
the sun would sting my pale face
and with an eastwoodian squint
i’d look straight into it, my
wraithlike shadow ignored
 
the dark arc of all that history smoldering behind me,
an afterthought, a backwards glance
out the window of my car at the factory
spewing the smog of my memory’s making
 
and if i saw you through that streaked and mottled window,
i’d look straight to the bottom of you,
and tip you out onto the sidewalk
hollowed for the crime of looking.