Your Fluevogs: the hot ones with purple trim, 
corinthian heels, and spiky iron straps. 

The feel of them on my heart, the anguish. 
I’m remembering them; And growing younger

in a memory, recalling a different, luxurious pain.  
Crushed. Coming across them now in our old armoire. 

As the phone rings, and slices the Saturday afternoon
across the ribs. I know it’s the lawyer. I know what’s next.