Exhibit, Unmarked

Black oxfords, bottom of a box

marked MISC. The left toe, scuffed to white

on courthouse marble. Past the locks

I paced nine hours, left to right

and back. The insole keeps a dark

oval where the big toe bore

its weight through every recess—mark

of standing on a marble floor

until the floor wore through the shoe

or the shoe wore through the man.

I held them and the smell came too:

wax, brass polish, the institutional tan

of walls I memorized by force.

Four years in a closet and the crease

still bends along its original course,

still shaped around a foot's release

and pivot. I'm packing. I should pitch

the pair. The left one lists

against the right, a slight lean which

suggests the body still persists

in its direction. I set them back.

I tape the box. I write MISC twice—

black marker on the cardboard's black—

as if the word could keep it imprecise.