Spilled, Shod

This poem needs tiny shoes
for each and every one of her iambic
feet. She’s ’bout to hit the street and break

dance her way across the
c   o   n   c   r   e   t   e
and play in the sprinklers.

This poem longs for a pair
of flip flops and a tall cool drink
and some tiny umbrellas.

She knows she would look
sexy in Manolos, but she’s
broke (did we mention she’s a poem,

and therefore somewhat unpaid
and underappreciated and a tad
bit unclothed). But she’s still gonna

take her scantily clad bad self out
for a late-night drink of that crazy
moon. This poem is swoon

-ing over ballet slippers and tall
heeled boots and strappy sandals
that allow stray syllables to spill

right on through. She’s got her
eye on a pair (or two) of Adidas,
so she can fly, or at least run

-on sentence her way across
the city. This poem is pretty
sure her tootsies are content,

though that first little piggie is
squealing. (On second thought, maybe
she’ll just go barefoot, instead.)
 

…
Prompted by Poetic Asides April PAD Challenge, day 23. 

 

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