Scuffs

10 o’clock
I sat at the sink cleaning my boots
With brush in hand I worked away in some controlled fervor
Detergent, Brush, Water, Brush.
My mechanical cycle repeated.
Every cycle I would glance down at my watch.
Counting down the minutes
“five minutes,” I chanted
It became a mantra.

“one minute”
I halted to look upon what I thought would be a near perfect creation.
I expected to grin gingerly with a glow of accomplishment.
Instead, a wry frown took over my countenance
as I realized the scuffs and the nicks still remained
and I knew these scuffs ran deeper than the surface
grooving themselves a place of permanence
I knew all of my brushing, scrubbing, scraping, clawing
would only serve to highlight the gouges;
no system or perseverance on my part
could ever cover these

—these scars on my heart.