You told me
scuffed trainers,
black leather lace-ups
and brown suede slip-ons
were all the shoes you'd ever need.

Now my heels rattle against the floor,
on empty wooden rectangles stained
with the absence of our shared possessions.
Discarded trainers on the doormat
the only remnant of you.

I wrap them gently in tissue and brown paper,
call round to deliver them
and find your new penthouse flat
full of sculpted leather soles and loafers,
lounge shoes and trendy trainers,
ankle boots, walking boots and wellies.

Time to leave you
full of the profits of stamping on the fingers
of those further down the ladder.
Peering back to calculate
the value of their shoes.

I throw yours into the river
and walk home.