Too Small Boots

My boots are too small.
They were made for someone else’s feet
And a very different sort of terrain.
I have blistered heels.
My toes might as well have been run over by a large car
Full of an entire family of fatties.

I wear thick climbing socks
In an attempt to stretch my too small boots,
And also to make them feel a bit more at home.
This is Whitechapel. Not the Dolomites.

We traverse the Commercial Road.
But it is not a col, impassable due to heavy snowfall.
There are no dead mountaineers,
Perfectly preserved in the ice.
Just some dog poo and
Bones from a Halal Perfect Fried Chicken
By the gate to Altab Ali park.
The only Via Ferrata route is on the DLR.
No Sherpas. No pitons or crevasses or crampons.
There’s no need to abseil in Whitechapel.
Or hike across screes or glaciers.
This isn’t altitude sickness. It's just a slight headache.

But we are making the best of it, I and my too small boots,
Glissading whenever we can on wet leaves.

In spite of the pain and strong sense of not belonging,
We complete the ascent of the North Face
Of the steps up in to the office.