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Foot Fetish

By Joe C Miller

I absolutely love those dainty
little morsels of loveliness.
Trimmed, manicured and painted.
What women refer to as their feet.

Then there are the monsters
that escape from my boots
every night after a shift or two
of battling the evil concrete.

The odor is reminiscent of that
emitted by those nasty white larvae
that infest unclean containers
of unwanted organic consumables.

A woman’s toenails evenly trimmed.
Polished, colored, and pretty.
Her ankles delicately adorned with
a sexy strap or a sparkly bangle.

My toenails require something
heavy-duty, not a trimmer.
More like a horse hoof clipper.
A body grinder and antiseptic.

The corns on my feet have names.
The fungus needs its own zip code.
The calluses are without reproach.
The skin, a dry, unforgiving dessert.

When she tries to tell me it isn’t so
I plug my fingers in my ears
singing nanana
nanana.

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By Joe C Miller

The last time
seems like decades ago.
Some how
I am always surprised
to see it still alive,
under a tarp,
in my garage.

I climb aboard
with a death grip
on my sweaty soul
and it resists.
Riding high, riding fast,
on liquid imagination
makes it hard to be
someplace else.

I am afraid of
one more trip to no where.
This time
something’s different.
I have landed in the middle
of a party.
Lots of music,
friends and dancing.

Behind the bar
Jesus wears a sombrero,
and serves up
cool green margaritas.
Could it be
that I’m in heaven
or is this Margaritaville?

He tells me
come back anytime.
There is no need
to drive a DeLorean,
88 miles an hour,
with a flux capacitor
gone bad.

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Jimmy’s Bunny

By Joe C. Miller

Where has fluffy
bunny gone?
Did Jimmy’s bunny
up and run away?

Daddy said
he didn‘t know.
Mama sure looked
sad.

There was a
special Sunday dinner,
to help cheer
Jimmy up.

Fried chicken,
it was good.
Where are the wings?
Why do the drumsticks
seem so small?

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