High heels and butterfly

She leaves for work parading her chic high heels. 
She wonders if they might be a too showy. 
She would never wear those on a trip to 
Lake Placid or Hunter Mountain.
She is impelled not to falter and return home, 
but to forge on across Fifth Avenue. 
She relentlessly tramples on 
the rustling pages of the Village Voice, 
the flimsy aluminum can and damp cigarettes. 
She knows that if hers steps should slow, 
her resolve will fail. 

Suddenly the ring of her cell phone caused her pause. 
She hears a voice she had forgotten 2 years before. 
As if it were awaiting her stops, 
a butterfly emerged from the subway vent 
and perched on her shoe.
Then with the signal cut the voice fades. 
She looks balefully at her shoes and mutters;
gWere my feet as flamboyant as my shoesch.
She turns her heels and goes whence she came, 
know that she will never again tread this street.