Kayode Afolabi lives and writes in Nigeria. 

Hurtful relics of an old shoe
By Kayode Afolabi

Old shoes don’t shrink. They still should fit
We were an item. We were to die for
But we died first. We were a picture-perfect pair
I see it beneath sooted prints
—relics of memorial studio shots

Old shoes might stink. Old shoes don’t shrink
Once I snoozed in memory. So I fit my feet
They went catatonic and wouldn’t be revived
So I bought phantom feet for 50 bancors
There was no dime left to buy shoes

Old shoes are old shoes. Yet they fit
Can I help it? Can I defeat this longing?
For an old shoe that I tossed in the incinerator
Yet still sits right here next to me
Getting new shoes—an unreachable feat