Your worn green sneakers at the foot of our bed
smile at me with a lopsided grin, like yours. Their
graying shoelaces peek over the top, like your gray
hair peeking out at the roots. They’re covered with
mud, grass stains, and cement from that time you traced our
initials into the new sidewalk. You, soft and wrinkled,
You, rubber slapped to canvas. You and your green sneakers –
                                            and me with you, today and always.

02/19/2004

Author's Note: Poetry assignment to imitate the style of William Minor.

Posted on 02/20/2004
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