washed up

there’s an old boot lying in the sand
half buried, toe up, and wet clear through.
brown leather wrinkled, sole separating,
the water ebbs and oozes as it will.
the laces are still there, marching halfway up,
then retreating into wet sand, ends frayed.
the tongue wags in the breeze,
missing ankles and other stabilizing forces.
the tide rises, comes to claim the boot,
and I watch the sand pour in.
somewhere in this ocean the other boot stays tied.