the crux of new shoes

If they had been glass slippers
instead of foam clogs
he couldn’t have placed them to rest
any more tenderly
against the wall.

They were perfectly aligned.
He checked twice to make sure
that they were even and safe.

They were his shoes. His own.

No one would be rushing ahead
to grab them tomorrow before him.
The soles did not flop
because they were not broken.
No strings tied about the heels
to make them last one more day.

Two whole shoes. His own shoes.

Waiting side by side
on child's commission
to carry life another 14 hours away
from terrain he knows
to be unwhole
and unholy.