by Rod Nichols

There’s a place I just know where worn-out boots go
and it’s sort of a heaven for soles,
’cause they’ve faithfully done all was asked of them son,
and remember for whom those boots tolled.

In hard times and storm they kept our feet warm
and with comfort we won’t soon forget,
so it don’t seem quite right at the end of their life
they’d be tossed aside and that’s it.

No, I see a table in some heavenly stable
where a bootmaker angel resides,
just tapping away through the nights and the days
restoring them tattered old hides.

He pauses a bit and then gives ’em a hit
til the soles and the heels look brand new,
then he redoes the leather and pulls ’em together
and smiles to himself when he’s through.

I can see them boots now in a showroom somehow
with a heavenly host gathered ’round,
it’s a shop don’t you know where cowboys can go
and a pair of old friends can be found.

I’d like to thank Rod Nichols for this swell addition to the “Book of Bootnik Poetry”.

Links

• Mr. Nichols writes poems about things other than boots…really! Take a look at his Rod Nichol’s page of cowboy poetry.

© Rod Nichols, 2000. All poems are copyright the artist and should not be reproduced without permission.