Sara zips on her skin-tight
red leather dress.
No underwear.
Jimmy Choo shoes,
found in a garbage bin
near the Dakota.
Only a half-size too small.
She wonders what woman
would toss away shoes
so posh that their cost
would have filled Sara's
fridge for three months.

Maybe they were given
by some cheating lover,
thrown out in a tantrum
when discovered, or taken
by a man with a shoe fetish
who, his way with them
had, hid the evidence.

Sara takes off one shoe.
Sniffs it.
Definitely the lover theory.

She stuffs condoms into
her purse, takes a cab
to a bar on the upper East side.
It's been three weeks
and her hormones are radiating
their SOS signals faster and faster.

By midnight a George Clooney clone
(though younger)
has his hand up her dress.
She allots him one hour for his b.s.
about meaningful relationships
before tottering out to a cab,
the Clooney clone sauntering behind.
A wannabe cat, but she's no canary
to be swallowed.

Six condoms later, Sara thinks
she can survive the next drought.
She's come on top
on bottom
upside down
sideways
on the bed
the floor
once on the kitchen table.
The man must be on Viagra.

She decides to keep him around
until morning should she need
one more orgasm, but

she wakes to the yowl
of two alley cats fighting,
finds lover
spare change
fake ruby ring
and those fantastic
fantabulous
never-will-be-again
Jimmy Choo shoes,
gone into the moody
Manhattan night.

Comments (2)

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annette said:

narrative, poetry and jimmy choos -- spectacular!

November 08, 2007 | url

courtney said:

i love the twists and turns of this. at the end i can't help but imagine someone else somewhere sniffing those jimmy choo shoes ...

November 15, 2007

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