My old feet are pinprick cold these days.
I sleep in socks and dream of stars
and wear slippers all day long.
I ruined these beat old stompers
when security had me marched
down from the moon.
(Hand me that Epsom salt, would you, hon?)
It was a long road down,
and I wore lousy shoes.
The way was cold, strewn with debris,
the Earth just bluing then.
I stumbled over gravity, kicked back
the comet curtain and saw you,
so beautiful by the pale light
of my old waning moon.
I lost track of the steps I took, then.
Eventually, I quit counting all the miles.
In the end, though, they forgot all about me,
but then that’s just how it goes
for us used-up old goddesses, isn’t it?
(Oh, baby, these dogs’re barking.)
This is for Big Tent Poetry’s latest prompt, which suggests we write about feet. That’s where this started but then it walked off (har-har, oh I slay me) in a surprising direction when I found myself writing the line about walking down from the moon.
There are just a few gnarled oak chapbooks left. It’s a collection of my favorite micro-poems from 2010 previously tweeted, ‘dented or otherwise shared. Let me know if you want one. They’re free and I’ll ship them anywhere.
Read more feet poems here.