He wears his wealth well:
vigorous walk, dazzling cuff links,
milky brown shoes – my favourite
longing…they seem perfectly designed
I push my point in his side:
“Give me a wear off the Clarks, boss.”
He looks at my shortness, in awe.
I feel this man’s muscles contracting, almost saying,
“is now you want to give up the fight?”
He smiles and says yes.
He seems happy…overcome.
He pulls the laces, slips his feet out.
He throws them at me, and runs off.
I look at the shoes, the worst odor emanates.
But they’re expensive…I slip my feet in.
Then I feel diseased, condemned,
engulfed in pus.
I hadn’t looked at his feet…