The Only Shoes

They’re the only shoes I’d commit suicide in
She laughs, leaning into her friend,
Tripping the hardcore light fantastic:

High-heel sling-backs, spangly red plastic,
Imelda Marcos wouldn’t be seen dead in.
They’ll be history when the music ends

Ankle-straps broken, hobbled, raw,
Alongside the pumps gaping with holes
From a 1930s speakeasy danceathon

Poor girls’ dreams, shoes to die for
Like Emma Bovary’s pink satin mules,
Cleopatra’s sandals, snakeskin toe-thong.