The closet has filled, corner to corner, with old
sneakers, running shoes, canvas casuals.
An archeologist, I dig through layers
of pairs like his and hers, notice ancient logos,
tread patterns, the lattice and wild tangle of laces.
 
I do not presume a plausible chronology
or to discover memory’s secret.
I brush off a crust of dirt, dust, mildew.
They are contorted in pain, worn through 
by their miles, splash in puddles,
the grind of gravel, the assault of asphalt.
 
Then the anomaly.  Of calling-card cream, a pair
are suede, with pinked and punched decorations,
from my dandy days and meant to impress—
dancing shoes without a smudge or scuff.
But I remember their drunkenness, the trip and lie,
remember the flush and flight of golden women.
 
All abandoned here, eagerly kept 
for their uselessness.  I discard them in 
common dumpster debris save for the perfectly
good laces I’ll use to bundle love-awkward letters, 
poetic nothings, life’s humble scraps as if to suture old wounds.