Saturday, April 13, 2013

Saturday Poetry: Feet (an excerpt)



Next thing I know he said,
Girl, I need a break.
I called Mother right away:
You got to help me out.

What she sent me was a pumice stone
wrapped in a brown paper note:
                Scrub all ten of those toes.
                The shingled, smarting soles.
                Scrub them like I once cleaned your clothes
                In a washtub
                filled to the top with so much lye
                it was foolhardy to breath through
                my nose.

When I could slide pantyhose on
by the count of five
I called him to say
I want to talk.
I'll meet you wherever,
If you want, halfway.

When I got there I sat down
making sure that he saw me
slice off my shoes
giving him a nyloned glimpse
of my crimsoned toes
while they tickled my instep and
caressed perfectly rounded heels.

Gold heels, browned,
like freshly baked loaves
of bread for the starving man.

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