They don’t really match with much,
Save my mood and the gully
Button down aloha shirts
Over sweaty tees, jeans, and such.
They’ve got a hole just above the foxing stripe,
From sloppy ollies that lack the height
To pop up curbs,
To impress girls
Or guys . . .
The waffled outsole lacks its dents
From bike pedals and hot cement.
Flat spots just below my toes
And as time passes these spots grow.
The outsole, once pristine and pale,
Now peppered over with grey and black.
A result of loiter sessions on bike trails,
Bikes thrown to the dirt without a rack.
Find them in a parking lot,
Or lying in a lawn.
Each scuff is a memory
I’ll hold until I’m gone.
Photo Credits: Aaron Almeida