Today she bought a pair of Doc Martens.

(well, knock-offs but who’s to know)

Wearing them she’ll feel

a certain kind of way.

Stomp

When she was small she’d watch

red-throated lizards

gloating around the front porch

Stomp

Stomp

Stomp

went her red buckled shoes

and away they’d scatter.

Then there were the Sam and Libbys

Sweet and demure

With a tidy bow on the toe

berry pink lining

But oh they made her feet

sweat and stain and stink

magenta

when she took them off

Stomp

Remember the Chucks?

High top laced all the way

up

Sweet kicks

Just a little black and white

Just a little like the cool kids

stomp

Tucked away in a drawer she keeps

worn out pointe shoes

christened with dried-up blood

at the toe and the heel

where blisters formed like

battlescars.

She always sank too heavy

drawn to the earth

Stomp

In her closet, white satin

crystal and pearl

worn only once

on a happy day

taken out and admired

from time to time

filled

by small feet

still teetering and soft

stompstompstompstomps

At home she wears

no shoes

cool and quiet and bare

better to feel the floor

_____

Always the goody

two shoes,

so they said.

Stomp

Stomp

Stomp

those

never really fit

Cathy Ferrell is a poet, writer, and educator from Central Florida. She attended Florida International University, and currently serves as a Reading Interventionist in virtual high school classrooms. She finds inspiration in her morning walks, family in all its forms, and the Sandhill cranes in her yard. Her work can be found online at sinkholemag.com and compulsivereader.com, and in the scholarly collection, Shakespeare and Latinidad, edited by Trevor Boffone and Carla Della Gotta. Connect with Cathy at ferrellwords.com.