Two Green Work Boots

on the front porch,
beside the wobbly chair,
near the garden hoe,
leaning against the door,
frame slices of life lived –
between the banging of the screen and
the squeak of the bottom stair
leading to the yard, leading to forever. 

The toes point to the
paths in and out,
down the stairs,
into the years
worn down without the sideways glance
of recognition
for the tired rubber souls.