I put the blame at Cinderella’s door,
her and that fine glass slipper, dainty feet;
such fairy tales have much to answer for.
I passed my teenage years convinced I’d meet
a prince, maybe the clichéd perfect knight
with firmly muscled legs astride a horse,
who’d know I was his true love at first sight
and beg my father for my hand.
no prince appeared and carried me away
to live with him in some enchanted land.
Most met I met were dull, none distingue,
predictably a lot were second-hand;
and none of them came bearing dainty shoes
of any kind which, with my generous feet,
was just as well.
I’m not the type men choose to idealize,
and I refuse to tune my heart
to someone else’s beat.