(Well, my Capstone Project is officially over. But here is one last poem for you.)
There in the corner,
The last of her I cannot throw away.
See, she wore them four days a week
To her job as a waitress,
And the use showed.
Where the soles were together,
They’ve peeled apart,
The blue accents faded to white,
And white gave way to dirty gray.
If you look inside,
The back is breaking
Where, one too many times late,
She shoved in her foot,
Heel pressing, pushing, wearing,
Until the structure broke free of the binding.
Next to them sit black, strappy heels,
They still have the sheen
Of brand new plastic,
Never sullied by oil or sweat or lotion.
The tag still hangs on the left one,
Ugly and drab against the shine.
They were too barely-there for her sister
To break in at last week’s October Homecoming,
They never got to be dancing shoes,
Never knew the relief
Of being yanked off at night.