Your shoes are pointed, with four-inch heels to keep you on your toes, so you can seem a little tougher to the people you don’t know. Your eyes elusive behind aviators, talking on the phone. Your shoes are stupid ’cause they’ll take you but won’t tell you where to go.
Your shoes sit neatly by the doorway on a gorgeous Saturday. You are barefoot with the broker you chose for a fiancé. And for the rock you got, you won’t ask why he’s hardly ever home. Your shoes are stupid ’cause they’ll take you but won’t tell you were to go.