by Corinne H. Smith

I hear them everywhere Ė
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,
"Donít mess with me, babe;
Iíve got spiked heels
And Iím 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
And to avoid possible collision.
They pass me by
Without missing a beat,
On their way to what can only be
More vital appointments
Than I have ever had to meet.
They leave me in their wake,
I amble along in my hiking boots,
Showing the universe who I am
By the smile on my face.

© 2009  Corinne H. Smith

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