Wingtips

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my grandmother called them, shoes bestowed
on me with a wave of her white-gloved hand
and the magic words, "He'll wear them. Charge it."

Their toecap shields riveted
with perforations at the seams
and ornamental curlicues

(so upper class), and arched like wings
on Batman's chest, or Dracula's cape,
my wingtips, tapping, sounded grown up.

Matching my steps to her pink high heels,
I shared in her regal dignity.
As we left, the sales clerks bowed.

At the airport, she set me free
to search for comics. My wingtip aura
parted tourists. I owned the terminal.

Back home, while other boys played sports,
I drew up my invisible cape
and poof! on bat wings, flew away.

I got their message: wingtips were prissy.
My shoes next time were plain. No matter.
Her love was my shield ever after.

Image by Susan Rouse.
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I've blogged about my grandmother. See Thelma Craig Maier Remembered for All Saints (11/2021). - WSS