walking, feet, boots

i won a foot massage two
weeks ago from you by answering a poetry trivia
question at the open mic. tonite
the drums were fungible, ice in spring rivers.
i kept cracklin to the same beat.
magic was across the fire from me, laying down
africa and celts. red hair, irish, superb
she says you are a diamond and i look at you fondly
say yes he is. later she speaks of witches
and the need for music. the spells her grandmothers
sisters cast. later she sings about walkin
boots, all nancy eyes for you only. i feel dismissal
unsheathed claws sub audible hiss. undeliverable
this evening she assumes the posture of ownership
and i relinquish without protest, barely,
just barely understanding her boots are meant for me.