Heels |
||
Suddenly
I hear them everywhere – Sharp pointed pops Made by sharp pointed pumps Measuring off a determined pace. Each time, they turn out to signal A power march Made by a woman In a blue or black suit, As if by punctuating the air Above the concrete sidewalk Or throughout the hollow hallway She can tell the world, "Don’t mess with me, babe; I’ve got spiked heels And I’m not afraid to use them." With toes pinched into a crevasse They were never bred to fit, Each subsequent stride must surely be More painful than the first. And yet they tramp on: Assuming that the anguish Is worth the effort; and that Image trumps Substance, hands down. What drives someone to choose Such a transparent method Of announcing an entrance? I move aside in bewilderment
© 2009 Corinne H. Smith
Blogs |
Books |
Non-Fiction|
Stories |
Poetry |
||