an ode to my old green all stars

for the diction of a worn shoelace
the ends tattered and chewed
to the rhythm of growth,

for the predictable slip of the tongue
to the left of each foot
as a reflection of pace,

for the hole in the back of each soul
where the weight of the world
presses down on us,

and for the white stained green
from the grass-juice emissions
of a two year old lawn mower.