I Think of Cinderella’s Slippers On a Chilly Night While Paying for Gasoline

I hand the twenty
and a worn-out ten
to a tired man
who slumps behind the register.

He turns to watch

a stranger who laughs
and drops his case of beer
in the back seat,

who crows to the friends who stayed inside his

warm

red

car

how he told me
I walked
like I thought

I was

some kind of princess

when I passed him
near the neon yellow
Wellcome sign.

I imagine myself--a lanky Cinderella--
smiling at a charming prince,
prancing in that pair of brittle, glassy shoes.
They'd probably break with only one dance--probably become piercing
piles of swirling, starry daggers
and stain my toenails red.

The register slides on squeaky plastic rollers,
clicks closed.

A tired man

wearing sturdy boots,
I walk outside.