Harry Mayer
Jungle boots with tread worn thin.
A part of me, a second skin.
They carried me through lands unknown
and always brought me safely home.
Caked with mud and canvas torn.
They hate polish; they must be worn.
In deserts dry or jungles wet,
beneath mosquito nets I slept.
Jungle boots protected me
through searing heat and misery.
In medic’s tent all alone,
surgeons sawed through flesh and bone.
With laces frayed and eyelets gone,
my jungle boots still brought me home.
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