Toe-Gore
You ten tubby toddlers have carried me far
(Sixty-nine thousand, one hundred and sixty-eight
Feet, specifically), all in one early-morning
Day of endurance and endorphins and end lines--
Finish lines with cameras. Each of you wore a cap,
A helmet, like the cap I wore to keep the sun from
Refracting in the sweat on my brow, and burning my skin.
The sub-dermal pull-strings than keep you moving
Have been straightjacketed by my sneakers,
But you still hold me up, uncomplaining.
Or so I, foolish head in the clouds, thought.
Peeling back my socks, I see you glaring up at me,
Faces purple with rage, caps pulled low so I can’t see
Your expressions. I have not been good to you, I know it.
Ice, ice, baby--to sooth your thousand tiny wounds,
And I don’t notice you, young sir, third from the left;
I do not notice your supreme outrage until I feel your
Cap slip off, not as a gesture of respect to the flag or
Courtroom, but in defeat. The nerves beneath tingle
And shriek, so unused to the paper cool of air.
I stare in a sort of static shock to see my
Toenail lying on the carpet, and wonder how I
Ever took such a thing for granted.
~
© 2010 Cooper Stimson