I long gave up on you.

Agony for the sake of vanity?

No, thank you!

Bunions, hammertoes, calluses—

Surgeries?

I don’t want to see a podiatrist.

Imagine, just imagine. . .

At work,

Eight hours or more

of pain and discomfort,

Just to convince myself

And others too

That I was at my best,

When in truth,

I always longed for rest.

At parties and bars,

Where standing was often inevitable,

Just a slip, or a trip

or fall—

Embarrassment and disgrace are irrecoverable.

At church,

The priest,

Father won’t deny me of communion

Just because I’m not tall enough

And that I’m wearing flats or flip flops.

Duh!

I am five-feet and one point something,

Rounded, I’m five-two.

At least I’m true.

I love my Air Force One,

Just so you know.

And wherever I go;

Whatever I am dressed

I go with my sneakers—

You need not to guess.

So spare me, stilleto!

This is not about gusto.