Friday, May 23, 2008

My Feet

Tuesday: the birds softly bugle
end of day. I look at my feet,
bare and wriggling on hot concrete.
They are pitted, spurred, I see,
cracked as white wood.
They are at the business end, my feet,
still dodging, chasing lost causes,
up in the night silent as slippers.
To my head, at the other extreme,
they are mere beasts of burden.
Though they work for the same body
there is no camaraderie there,
no joint sense of mission.
My feet think my head’s had it easy,
up there in the fresh air all these years,
talking crap. Where would it be without
them to do the donkey work?
No fancy products wasted on their upkeep,
just soap and water, cheap socks.
I think if my feet ever met my head again
they’d give it a good kicking.


hope said...

Friday must be feet day. :)

Rachel Fox said...

Very nice - funny and sad and knowing. 'Talking crap' made me smile and I liked the 'white wood' too and the ending.

A theme poem for chiropodists and reflexologists everywhere.

Sorlil said...

I enjoyed this, the ending made me laugh!

Frances said...

A very interesting juxtaposition between the bits that do the work and the cerebral bits - and how the two don't necessarily sing from the same hymn sheet. Great.

Fiendish said...

Funny and sweet. It's such a clever concept that I almost think more could have been done with the rivalry sort of thing between head and feet - but as it stands, it's great, so well done.