Outsole

The scent of where I've been
fades as soon as I open the suitcase.
Salty sweat stains gone in a wash cycle.

Only my discount store shoes,
bought for comfort rather than looks,
are admissible evidence:

Remnants of gum from Gare du Nord,
the black scuff from Bastille,
a tiny stone from Jardin des Plantes.

I'll never clean these shoes—
let foreign soil bond with rubber,
the nicks and marks permanent scars.

Bury me in them, even in tatters,
so that the dust of Paris is always
on the bottom of my feet.