Prostrate I look up at your feet
Dangling mere inches from my face.
They’re beautiful and though petite,
Contrive to keep me in my place.

I don’t know what I’m meant to do,
And so bespelled wait your command.
Who knew just one high heeled shoe
Could capture and leave me unmanned?

“I need a footstool lift your neck,”
I hear you softly say to me.
I raise my head and genuflect,
I’m just your footstool now I see.

I know some think this is abuse,
But it’s my joy to be of use.