He sits upon a step,
One hand thrust deep inside an army boot,
the other busy over it
As he polishes, polishes,
That which is already mirror bright.
And as he polishes the boot
He dreams of battles to be fought
And gallant deeds that, genie-borne,
Spring to his imagination
From that Aladdin's lamp he shines,
That boot.

Should I then scorn his dream —
I who sit before this page with phantoms of my own?
Verse and stories, characters in conflict,
Dance in strange procession through my mind
As I too polish words, and yet more words,
Conjuring the genie of my choice.

And what of you, do you too dream?
Is there a mountain yet for you to climb?
Come, take your mirrored boot and with us fly
On magic wings, beyond your prison walls.