To Be Alive, a Poem by Jaime Grookett
I never remembered him taking off his boots The way he crept to the side of the bed Pressed his toes gently on the rubber heels Sliding them off the soles of his feet Flicking them from the tips of his toes Like plucking the heads of dandelions-- I never remembered that. When I was ten, I swung on a giant homemade tire swing, Tread worn smooth like leather. When the blaze for excitement lit me up I’d grab the coarse yellow rope Hoist mysel