Sole

The lace gave up and snapped in two

inside the garage light’s glare.

I’m staring at a hospital shoe

I shouldn’t even wear—

the mud is caked inside the tread

from a lot that’s paved over now.

It’s August’s heat and the smell of the dead

coming back I don’t know how.

I kept them in a cardboard box

behind the winter coats.

I can still feel the grit in my socks

and the way the memory floats.