polish your shoes until your face shines back at you

There will be no shoes for your birthday.
(Wrapping paper remains unbought.)
There will be no rustling through a cardboard box,
to pull apart petals of paper and reveal
“Princess” shoes, patent jet with daisy hole pattern.
There will be no ‘but you said I couldn’t…’ glee.

There will be no balloons, no surprises.
No sticky cake to prise off the kitchen floor.

In the park, pigeons will remain unchased.
There will be no STOMP as leaves remain unjumped on.
There will be no shoelaces that need retying,
no gimmick of a flashing light at the heel
to catch the eye as the nights draw in.

It’s late now, I’m walking the hill of Hollywood Park.
Stopping to listen for the dark echo of a shadow,
or the tap-tap of tiny feet.