Envy

Envy is worse than you think.

Envy

It is the harlequin designer pumps
on the perfectly manicured
feet
of an intern.
The tell-tale click
elicits green sighs
from the gaggle of women
beside the copy-machine
who await each new day’s parade.

It is the snide comments,
breathe laced with acid words,
and the required smile of their mouths.
Rather a sneer.
Lips strung up politely,
but their eyes are looking
Far
         Down.

She falls
with a dull throb of her calloused
tired toes,
stripped down each night
with soles red and raw.
The women know not of these blisters.

Each word they breath,
heavy as lead
on already weary ankles.

They are waiting patiently for the crack.