Surrendering to the cruel intrusion–inconvenient, inevitable, too late, she knelt unwillingly in the closet, arthritic fingers caressing the dusty irony of the broken heel.
An heart, not bruised, unused, once, as the shoe, so durable under the rhythmic passion of the Dance, a heat now only remaining as an inflammation in the knee, still, still-broken, succumbing finally to the ruins of too careless storage.
Guest post: firescarecrow (Marty Kummetz), 7/21/09 