There is a pair of shoes on the steps to the library
faded and tattered
tongues hanging out listlessly,
dogs in the blistering sun
laces diminished to twine
once hard canvas reduced to the softness
of a used baseball glove.
all proof of a life well lived.
Or, rather, simply proof of a life... lived.

There is a pair of shoes on the steps to the library.
No one knows how They got there.
No one knows their past.
And no one knows their future.
A pair of non-shoes if you will.

White rubber toes curl upwards
a harsh cry against physics;
The ribbed pattern long worn smooth,
only clue of where it once was:
the tiny puzzle pieces of cross-hatching found
in the oddest locations.

Day after day
their tongues droop further,
the laces fray more,
the rubber soles fall farther.

There is a pair of shoes on the library steps.
Destined to be lonely forever.

There is a pair of shoes on the feet of a little girl.
much too big
they slide whenever she jumps
the chalked line on the sidewalk.
But the tongues no longer droop,
and the laces stay tied together.
And as times goes by,
that chalked line,
becomes a jump rope.
And the jump rope,
becomes a forest log.
And the forest log,
becomes city pavement.
the shoes no longer fit.
And everytime I pass them,
I can smell the adventure
and stories they hold.
The reek of desire to be played in again.
And everytime I pass those shoes...
I wink at them.
Just our little secret,
I mumble.
And I can recall,
every adventure,
every afternoon I spent in them.

There’s a pair of shoes on the steps to the library.
I wonder how they got there.

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