My naked toenails,
polished pink just this afternoon,
poked through their nylon casing
sometime before a flight attendant
waved me onto the escape chute.
I slid easily in my satin suit.
Pulsing emergency lights give me motion sickness
though the plane lies still, broken, burning,
having flattened some farmer’s cornfield.
Yes, yes, I hear shouts
from rescue crews,
screams of the injured,
nothing from some, quiet, on their way to the morgue.
But, please God, where are they?
with three-inch heels,
dazzling crystal sunbursts
adorning the toes.
The envy of the charity ball fashion conscious,
more faithful than what’s-his-name
who traveled to Rome with me.
They’re worth lighting a candle for.