It would almost make sense
to get a part-time job at the shoe store
where I could use the employee discount
to keep my sons’ feet well-shod.

Holes keep opening in their sneakers
like little mouths, insatiably hungry
to feast on the stretch of asphalt
where the basketball bounces

or the grass that fills the soccer field.
My youngest boy's runners seem
to wear down near the spot he uses
to find a toe-hold in a tree.

His brother's kicks kick the bucket
closer to the arch, where he jumps
to reach the rim. At night I stoop down
to straighten the jumble of pairs

that crowd close to the front door.
I don't even have to turn my high-tops over
to know there's nothing wrong with them,
their soles still so sadly immaculate.