Rows and rows of tiny heels
teetered in pairs
on the dolls house shelves.
So she was a collector.
She was not what I expected.
Dressing gowned and ugly
(a botched face job, perhaps?)
with a small dog squirming under her arm.
The curtains were drawn.
The television flickered
in the summer heat.
She didn’t turn it off.
An exercise machine
sat unwrapped by the coffee table.
‘I must lose weight –
but with my bladder condition? ‘
I showed her the boots
worn once for my son’s wedding
They were crimson – Italian suede.
‘I’ll take $350 for them’.
‘The photos don’t do them justice.
They’re gorgeous – perfect.’
Her voice trembled as she
forced a fat foot into the high arch.
‘They’re too bloody small!
I knew they would be.
It’s this bloody weight.
Can’t seem to shift it.’
Where would she wear them, I wondered –
these four inch pedestals of podalic grace?
Then I noticed the long fake nails
that sprouted from her hands.
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