The boots were my pals especially on cold
nights around a warm campfire where
stories were exchanged about the aloof
game that got away or how other hunting
parties were more successful than ours,
I grabbed the boots one by one and laid
them on my lap as I pushed my wheel
chair out of the closet and to the living room
where I placed them on the coffee table as
a reminder of the time I was free to walk
and ambulatory as a hunter before my
tragic accident on the mountain top chasing
my frightened prey.
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Author:
Summersounds68 (
Offline) - Published: December 2nd, 2023 18:27
- Comment from author about the poem: I would like to receive comments on this poem.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 6
Offline)
Comments1
Then comments you shall receive:
True, autobiographical?
Point of tale? warn others to be careful?
Ironical? Anti hunting?
Doggerel Dave, the poem is fiction.
That's a relief. What of the rest?
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