Foot Binding

Eight-hour filibuster. Four-inch heels.
Three hours to go. Why did I do this?
I felt regal at first. A goddamned queen.
I could see over the lectern. Make eye contact.
Would they respect me in flats?

The short congressmen. They stand on a box.
I blame Frank for this. Frank and his shoes.
Frank and his feet. He’ll rub these feet with warm oil into the night.
And no shoes tomorrow. Maybe the fluffy pink slippers.
The tailor’s bunion. Must get it treated.

These stilettos are shrinking. My toes overlap.
Should have brought a second pair. One size larger.
Two sizes larger. An inch shorter.
After five hours no one cares. I could stand eye to eye with Dinklage.
Look at him. He’s a king or something.

Wendy Davis went thirteen hours. Wendy Davis isn’t seventy-eight.
Wendy Davis wore pink tennis shoes. Then high heels for her Vogue shoot.
Must stop saying “I won’t stand for it.” Must quit calling Republicans “heels.”
Now it’s time for the man with no shoes. Draw it out.
When it’s time for the man with no feet… let out a little sob.

 

…for Poets United Midweek Motif – Shoes