Day 27 - The Music

My boots are useless as boots.
They make the big toe of each foot
hunch, smart, snooker-ball red,
burn an eyehole through my sock.
The cuban heel
enables walking peg-leg style,
and steel-drumming of escalators.
They double up as part of pirate
or cowboy get-up.
But really,
my boots are useless as boots,
good as doorstops.
Their weighty leather jams my room's oesophagus
so I can hear the music of my pan bubbling over,
K transferring the fire to a second hob via cocktail stick,
the kingfisher-blue flame flowering,
then shrivelling to a corona.