Walked Out

These shoes.

From the back of the closet.

The soles, slick now,

like worn-down tires.

No grip left.

Just the memory

of asphalt and grit.

Canvas faded,

a smudge of something

I can't quite place,

maybe dried mud,

maybe just the dust

of those miles.

The faint, sour smell

of sweat, dried up,

stuck in the fabric.

I walked them bald,

didn't I?

Through that whole mess.

Every step,

a slow grind.

They held up,

better than I did.