The Red Shoes
The red shoes are shabby
discolored with champagne.
They started so bright and full of life,
now they sit blue and dejected.
She had to have them!
She saw the ruby slippers
that might take her home;
anywhere not here.
She would gloss them all up,
work out the imperfections with soap;
wear them with her Sunday dress;
not much, but she’d had worse.
Her eyes glittered, golden flecks.
She had enough saved to salvage the shoes.
Who would care if they fit;
she’s accustomed to that.
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