pointed towards home

he would put his shoes
on the steps,
large black or brown,
so we'd
do the same.
that's where they always
were,
until he left.

his were polished,
holding the sheen
of the stairway
light
at the top of the stairs.


but most of ours were worn
the soles turned
the sides buckled.
holes near formed.
the white sneakers marred
with the street
and woods,
the mud
of the thin creek behind us.


I look at the shoes
now
that I own. dozens.
under the bed, on
shelves.
so many of them,
some new and hardly
worn, some lined on
the steps. some black,
some brown,
but all

pointed towards home.