Marla is trying to untie
the laces from a pair of
leather shoes in her lap.
Her fingers scratch the eyelets,
worry at tight knots.
She tuts and sighs constantly,
then shouts,
Jesus! Why can’t I …
Stupid fecking things!
She flings the disobedient shoes
against the fireplace.
I pick them up, check the laces,
which are tight
but not impossible.
Don’t! Marla is on the verge of tears.
Don’t even try.
I wasn’t going to, I lie,
seizing a pair of scissors
from her sewing basket
and snipping the laces away from the shoes.
We’ll buy laces for them tomorrow.
She says,
Did we get the gig at the Tivoli?
I’ll speak to Roger.
God, I hope he didn’t give the job to Moira.
She’s always sniffing around.
We’ll practise tomorrow when we have shoes.
Are you free to dance tomorrow, Toff?
Yes, I tell her. I am.