Those White High Tops Whose Laces I Never Tie

When I was 12, 
My favorite pair of shoes 
Also happened to be my only pair of shoes. 

I liked that they were so old their soles were coming 
Off of the actual shoe 
Because I had walked that much in them. 

I liked that they were so beaten 
That it shows how many times 
They've been packed 
And washed 
And squashed into dog poop 
Or gum in the school hallway. 

I have more shoes now. 
But they're still my favorite. 

I remember when I first got them 
From my dad after 
I begged him for weeks. 

He told me he knew I knew 
I could make him do whatever I wanted 
And he planted the lightest kiss on my forehead 
And it felt like an achievement of some kind. 

And I held his hand for maybe an hour after that 
Because it felt like that's what it was there for. 

And he still feels like heavy snow 
On a school morning 
Or maybe 
Someone who's been through so much 
But still ended up staying.