Right Side Worn

I found them at the back of the closet

behind the coat I keep for good,

and turned them over the way you turn

a thing when you probably should

leave it. The right sole worn down

along the outer edge—that's how I walk,

apparently. Favoring something. The body

keeping its own record. No talk.

The leather above the right big toe

creased white and permanent and done.

That year, the early train, the job

I let take pieces—every one

of those days I wore these shoes.

I put them in the donation bag.

Four minutes. Took them back out.

They're sitting on top of the bag,

not inside it. That's where we are.

I'm moving this weekend. I'll bring

them to the next apartment, probably.

The crease won't change. The sole worn thin

along the outside edge. The right.