by Laurie Fagen
As I stretch out, consid’ring a rhyme
That’s not flowing, I realize I’m
Staring, deep in my thought
As it seems all for naught.
For what should I write of this time?
Then it strikes me: what more do I know
Of an object that seems apropos?
It is stepped on, abused,
And quite often it’s bruised.
My eyes are fixed fast on my toe.
For the moment, it’s pure innocence.
But it’s suffered through more accidents.
It’s been broken and stubbed,
And each dance step that’s flubbed
Gets it squashed as a sad consequence.
But what of the good times of toes?
Of high kicks? Of a pointed toe pose?
In the door, on the line,
Painted colors so fine.
This appendage deserves some repose.
Now I really must get to my job
And quit staring at that little knob.
Or once more will I stray,
Think as cannibals may:
How about a grilled toe shish kabob?
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