Clearing the Street Grit

I pushed past the heavy rubber draft flap beneath the front door, leaving the cold street behind me. My boots were coated with damp pavement dust from kicking open that conker shell this afternoon, and I wasn't about to track that grime further into the house. Right on the hallway floorboards sat the coarse brown coir doormat, bristling like an unyielding field of stiff fibers. I unslung my guitar strap and leaned the instrument securely against the baseboard so the neck stayed untouched. Then I stepped onto the rough mat, planted my weight, and vigorously scraped both soles back and forth until the dried grit flew off. Clean boots make for a steady stance.