Bruised Foot – A Poem

 

Bruised Foot

“I am a bruised foot!” I cry out
carving my own bit of paradise
in an afternoon of toil.

“What does that even mean,
dear?” you ask
from the shelter of the novel
you’re reading.
A fat one with no picture
on the cover
to provide it at least a
modicum of decency.
Just black and grey square blocks
and bold red letters.

Somewhere, I think
to myself, there is a light
cast by candles
and eyes
filling
a glass of wine. I want to tell
you about it.
About how the checkered table-cloth
under the crystal vase with the
supermarket bought roses
just didn’t belong.

How maybe I just don’t belong.

But I am, really, only but a brave coward
influenced by the sudden
change
of your hair color,
the rise of your chin as you stretch
succulent as a pomegranate,
the daffodils in your voice
as your berate me.

And I am compelled by the force of
your presence, your nature
to answer
“The foot, darling, contains my soul
and the bruise
all of my failures
at perfection.”

“My God, my love.
My dearest Eric,”
you say with wisdom grinning on your
brow
“Who the hell wants perfection?”

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