Threshold

He’s wearing the shirt with the grease on the cuff.

I guess I had finally given it up.

The cotton is thin and the color has bled.

He’s walking the path that I already tread.

I look at his feet in the hall by the door.

His sneakers are slanted, just hitting the floor.

The rubber is gone on the edge of the heel.

I know how the tilting and grinding must feel.

I carved out the ruts in the dirt of the yard.

I made all the easy things look like they’re hard.

He follows the slope that I left in the clay,

just wearing my ghost at the end of the day.