They are the only ones who fit me. I am the only one who fits them. Ten clean Jordans with clean soles and Ten who are not made to be mishandled. Ten crispy gifts given from my father. From my room, I can wear them, but Footlocker just sells and doesn’t appreciate these things.

Their value is secret. They send footprints into the dirt. They get clean and they get dirty and catch pebbles from the ground between their plastic soles and glimmer in the light and always get attention. This is how they keep.
Let one forget his reason for being, they’d all stack like cards in a closet, each with their pair away from the other. Clean, Clean, Clean they say when I sleep. They walk.

When I am too tired and too busy to keep cleaning, when I am a rag against a giant bottle of cleaner, then it is I look at the shoes. When there is nothing left to clean in my room. Ten who get dirty. Ten who untie and do not forget to untie. Ten whose only reason is to be worn and worn.