Ars Poetica

A poet’s feet can be disgusting things.
I see them at the gym: hairy, bent,
Arthritic sets of bones, adorned with rings
To make each toe look sexier. Their scent

Defies description. While Limburger cheese
Left ripening a bit too long comes close—
A yeast infection closer—even these
Analogies fall short. I hold my nose.

I ask in a squeaky voice, “Why scatter warts,
Instead of rose petals, in the shower?
What kind of gift’s a wart? None. The worst.
A waste of talent and abuse of power.

Give one good reason why your words exist—
Or stop writing. See a podiatrist.”