The Flight

The cat is batting at a cap.

It rolled into the dusty gap

beneath the bed, where things go cold,

and everything is gray and old.

I reached into the dark and grit

to find the thing and carry it.

I pulled a sneaker by the heel,

and felt the way the fabric feels.

The lace is frayed, a dying worm.

The rubber has begun to turn.

I wore these when I tried to run.

I was nineteen and nearly done.