by The Cowl Editor on September 26, 2019
Poetry
by Sarah McLaughlin ’23
I slide my right foot in, it catches
A hole in the lining, my toe’s stuck inside
“Why don’t you just put them in the trash?”
I shake my head and smile, like it’s a nice joke
Thirteen years old, I picked them out
Thought they looked cool—black leather, gold eyelets
Sturdy, stiff, snug around both calves
Gave me half an inch, maybe, but it made all the difference
Laced up on the first crisp morning of fall
Carrying my steps ’til the first flower blooms
Weathered, worn, they don’t stand up straight
On their own anymore, need my ankles’ support
But the rubber soles, nearly flat, unseen
In return, still manage to hold up my feet
“Want to borrow some shoe polish?”
I turn away, pulling my double knot taut
Polish might cover the stains and scuffs
But only how bandages cover a cut
Laces’ ends frayed like roots of a tree
Clear plastic coating a distant memory
Socks always get wet, skin wrinkled and cold
Then they sit, stuffed with newspaper, by the front door
“Why don’t you want to buy a new pair?”
I look to the price tags, sometimes tempted for change
But each road, each floor, each path I’ve walked
They’ve held me up, half an inch, double knot, snug