What the Left One Knows

I found them in the bin while looking for my coat —

the grey ones, left sole worn thin

at the ball of the foot, that particular lean

I walked with for about a year. The skin

of a bad time pressed into rubber.

I put the left one on, right there in the hall,

sock on tile, and felt it immediately —

the tilt, the list, the quiet pull

of every sidewalk from that year

coming back through the sole.

The right shoe's fine. You'd never guess.

I held the left one up and the worn hole

was grey-brown, shaped like something I can't name.

I put them back. I closed the bin.

I stood there for a while after,

both shoes off, just standing in

the hallway, not going anywhere.