FOOTWORK
Neat puffs of cotton wool between her toes,
(the varnish must not smudge on to her skin)
she opens up the little pot, dips in -
a brush-stroke thick with Ripened Cherry goes
from nail to perfect nail in heavy drops;
she's bending forwards, thighs apart, breath held;
her hand is steady till each blob has gelled
and dried to hard enamel. Now she stops
and buckles on strap sandals, zips her dress,
buttons her coverings. It's turning cold;
she waits for Zeus, the swan, the shower of gold;
who else could see she's ready to say yes?
