Eighth Avenue by Lynn F Hoffman

The shine on the fenders curves
like the shine on her boots as she
walks knee-forward on Eight Avenue sidewalk
toward the car door that’s opened for her
as her beauty deserves, as her rarity demands.
She makes the last few steps over subway grate,
over heel-catching, elegance-ending iron traps
with just the smallest effort she curls a foot
and dips a hip to land on feet as if they had balls.
Three steps, four and she’s in the car, door shut.
We were rooting for her, stirring our coffee in the cafe,
cheering the grace, wishing her a leg up as there, but barely there
she skipped on the check that stiletto heels
pay for their sheer impossibility. Brava!
Ah but you, and you my dear, how much lighter
you were as you as you walked away from him
and yours with your heels uncaught.
Not three steps, four, but more.
You sweetheart, you coulda made it
all the way to Broadway.