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.
Clutching at Straws 