The Shoe

Finding a high-heeled shoe under the table in an Italian restaurant.

All we can munch, penne pasta for lunch,
a wee cozy table for two.
When I sat down something nudged me below;
I felt a sleek, high-heeled shoe.

Isle of Capri, as fine as can be;
the inside chrome sparkling new.
Finding a shoe shakes the old status quo;
fine footwear out of the blue.

I sat amazed of shoemaker ways—
praise Sophia Webster* and crew.
Butterfly art from the top to the toe;
O what attention it drew!

People nearby whose smiles were wry
grinned wider like they had a few.
I raised a shoe at my own fashion show;
seemed like the right thing to do.

Catching my eye a nice bearded guy;
a Billy Joel lookalike too.
I gripped the shoe tighter than you can know;
countenance a reddish hue.

Strike up the band, the shoe in my hand
(one Wednesday I have come to rue.)
There rained guffaws when I could not let go;
stiletto shoe laced with glue.

*Sophia Webster: British shoe designer.


24 Lines (Rhythm: 9-8-10-7)
Writer’s Cramp
6-26-19