The Late Slip

The fire doors hissed and swung shut,

cutting the street noise in half.

I’m walking a familiar rut

away from the locker room laugh.

Everyone is behind the wired glass,

sitting in rows in the heat.

I can hear the hum of a clock as I pass

and the squeak of my own damp feet.

A single blue sneaker sits by the wall

under a trophy for a game long won.

It’s the loneliest sound in the hall

when the busy work is finally done.