Shoes With No Feet

You were my legs when I had none.
My feet are now bare and aching.
Where are my sandals, that shiny
gold and white, those wings
of a butterfly like a tattoo
on the curve of my ankle
to the tips of my toes?

My mobile remains attach
to the plug on the wall,
missing the hands that uncurl
its wire and ignite it with fire.
I am now my own chauffeur,
maid and butler; rolled into a single
dough to be punched down
before the bake.

And I drive while I sleep,
mock by spiders climbing
up my neck and into my brain.
I can hear them laugh as I weave
a yarn in another dimension
and cars zoom past an inch away.
Their web, that black sheet of sky
presses on my life
until I have no feet.