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I watched a man on a talk show discuss his diminished desire
for the company of his wife, even in sexy attire,
due to, so he said, her lack of care for her feet,
now, I stare at my own with a more than casual peek.

Generally, I view my podi, for the most extended time,
in my morning shower, where I am somewhat blind
due to astigmatic eyes, and, in that light they look fine,

but I realize I've abused them, poor digits left and right,
formerly squeezed in pointy shoes ever too snug and too tight,
and of the foot mint creams (girlfriend gifts I've received),
they rest dusty, unopened, my toesies unsheathed.

Oh, I've stubbed them and broken their delicate bones,
and once ripped a nail off my nicest big toe,
I did however paint them (black, for the Ramones);

They have wispy hairs that I think I should shave,
but why should I bother? They always behave.
They've carried me well, so what I'll do instead,
is stop watching talk shows and stand on my head.

      — Karen Masullo