Last Mojito, The

The Woman Who Lived in a Shoe

82 THE LAST MOJITO The Woman Who Lived in a Shoe The woman who lived in a shoe Thought often of leaving, Schemed her escape each night When she fell asleep Dreaming of dirty dishes Feeding her miserable plight. If only she’d finished college, Listened to her dear mother, Earned some type of degree— Instead of falling for Mr. Right (Who left only his socks And those hungry mouths behind), All this would not have been, But fate played a cruel hand . . . And she had such twisted fingers. Ah, what was she to do? With no marketable skills, Except a strange penchant For living in compact places Among hordes of children Who clung to her unmercifully (Lacing her up so tight She could barely breathe), Her options appeared weak, Her tale fairly certain. Oh well, she told herself, At least she’d learned a lesson She could teach her daughters: Never fall for a man with feet Larger than his wallet. ...