She had fancy people feet, and
I’m not talking about the shoes.
The breath she was breathing was the wind
And her exhalations were danger and
Sophistication
Rolled into a pancake. She seemed to
Know herself; seen by the way she
Held her handbag so tight against
Her white billowy blouse
As if the world were to end soon but
Her wet wipes would remain
And if she held on so tight she would, too.
She knew where she was going, for her
Fancy people feet never failed her, so it seemed,
The chalky toes hid beneath folds of lavender leather whispered
Fond secrets to each other between
Every delicate bounce.
She was so cool and suave like
A pat of butter rolling around a hot skillet.

And you almost bought it all, too.

Her lips were pursed and the little cracks
Were white tiger stripes on a pink coat
And despite her stubbornness to survive, oh,
Despite her cleverly applied fancy people feet—
She was just like me.
And my feet were wide
And calloused
And bound for the end of the world.


 

The reader brings his or her own experience to the poem and creates meaning. Here is my experience.

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