Good Shoes

I wore them for an hour at the coffee shop—

flat tile, the way you're supposed to break them in.

That's the advice. That's what I did.

The lobby had a different kind of spin:

hard floor, long hall, the walk to the conference room.

By the elevator my left heel was done.

I sat with my ankles crossed under the table.

I said I thrive in situations that run

against the grain. I said I'm adaptable.

The blister was the one true thing I felt.

In the parking garage I peeled the sock back:

pink, wet, the whole thing already dealt.

The interview folder on the passenger seat.

I sat there in the dim and tried to place

what they'd seen—the small shift in my weight,

the way I smiled a half-beat off the pace.

The shoes are on the floor of the back seat.

I haven't decided if I'll wear them again.