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.

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