The poet alone <br />is writing an ode <br />to her shoes- <br />her shoes which <br />only she can fill, <br />her shoes of purple suede and green leather <br />the color of palm fronds, <br />her diamond-studded boots, <br />her feathered cowboy boots, <br />her seven-league epic poetry boots, <br />her little silver haiku boots, <br />with tiny heels that twinkle, <br />her first-person platform boots <br />and her backless glass slippers <br />modelled after Cinderella's <br />(one lost, at midnight, <br />because of a running man), <br />her huntress boots of India-rubber, <br />her lover's boots joined at the ankle <br />like leg irons, <br />her pink baby booties bronzed <br />for posterity, <br />her daughter's burning Reeboks, <br />her lover's laceless sneakers <br />left in the guest room closet <br />for her to kiss <br />year after year <br />after year. <br /> <br />Darling shoes, <br />beloved feet <br />ten toes to walk me <br />toward my true love, <br />fuck-me pumps to fuel his passion <br />stiletto heels to stab him <br />if he strays. <br /> <br />Shoes tell you everything. <br />Shoes speak my language. <br />Their tap tap tap on the airport runway <br />tells me the story <br />of a lovely, lonely woman flying after love- <br />That old, old story <br />in a new pair <br />of shoes.<br /><br />Erica Jong<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ode-to-my-shoes-2/
