You two dirty nasty feet.
Little knuckles on each toe worn pink.
Blackened on the bottom.
Deadened in the pads.
By this point you’ve carried me around the world and back again.
How you walk even though you’re nailed ten times together.
How you move forward on a heel command I’ll never know.
But don’t stop.
Bones pop.
Metatarsals.
Crack up advice.
Eat a banana.
Why don’t you?
Follow your soul in spite of your soles you won’t go far.
I’ve stabbed you.
I’ve crushed you.
I saw the radiograph.
I clean broke you.
But you cling to me.
You both do.

You wiggle in my moments of discomfort
to remind me I’m supported by far less fragile things
than looks or self esteem or ego. I know.

You only hurt me when you have to.
And I you.
It is a crucial component of the friendship between us three.
You two feet and me.
Our ten toes like ten rowdy children we keep.
We share.
A sort of.
Joint custody.