phone rings.
he wants me,
I can tell, or
is it those red shoes?
sounds made
by high heels
on reflective,
wooden floors
bedevil him.
I am someone else
in scarlet spikes.
my skirt swirls
freely
in the warm air
surrounding me
like a swarm of honey bees.
my legs, longer
in those red shoes,
belong to a seductress;
a stranger to me.
I am rhythm.
my breasts bounce
upon the off beat.
he is at the door.
my pulse quickens
as I slip on those red shoes,
and one thing leads to another.
