Those WHOO HOO Jimmy Choo Shoes   Sara zips on her skin-tight red leather dress. No underwear. Jimmy Choo shoes, found in a garbage bin near the Dakota. Only a half-size too small. She wonders what woman would toss away shoes so posh that their cost would have filled Sara's fridge for three months. Maybe they were given by some cheating lover, thrown out in a tantrum when discovered, or taken by a man with a shoe fetish who, his way with them had, hid the evidence. Sara takes off one shoe. Sniffs it. Definitely the lover theory. She stuffs condoms into her purse, takes a cab to a bar on the upper East side. It's been three weeks and her hormones are radiating their SOS signals faster and faster. By midnight a George Clooney clone (though younger) has his hand up her dress. She gives him one hour for his b.s. about meaningful relationships before tottering out to a cab, the Clooney clone sauntering behind. A wannabe cat, but she's no canary to be swallowed. Six condoms later, Sara thinks she can survive the next drought. She's come on top on bottom upside down sideways on the bed the floor once on the kitchen table. The man must be on Viagra. She decides to keep him around until morning should she need one more orgasm, but she wakes to the clang of the garbage men, finds lover spare change fake ruby ring and those fantastic fantabulous never-will-be-again Jimmy Choo shoes have slipped into the misty Manhattan dawn. Pris Campbell ©2007 Published in the Nov/Dec issue of Empowerment4women online magazine Art: Ad for Jimmy Choo red shoe Return to Poetry Index II Return to Homepage