Dusty, corralled by clear walls
of plexiglass, they smell of age,
the violent polish of pain. Red,
mismatched, many, owned
by the women who wore
them, sophisticated, matching
lipstick to dress, never
imagining that by the quiet end
of one day they would
be nameless. Nothing
but animals, wrapped in skin.
Nothing but flesh
cowed under a frozen cloak
of fear. Bodies
seeking warmth from each
other, in the crowded
car of a terrifying train
tearing into night. Soft red
eather shoes an old indulgence
from another woman’s life.
