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.