Centipede Shuffle
A poem
He tiptoes across the bathroom tiles
this centipede with the sad soles,
calloused feet tapping out a quiet rhythm.
Corns on every foot,
a hundred little burrs of pain
from all that scurrying to and fro.
He pauses under the sink’s depth,
as if listening for the soft ooze of a drip,
the slow meter of routine plumbing woes.
Then shuffles on,
shrugging that thousand-shouldered shrug,
enduring the daily burn and chafe.
At night he soaks those feet in baths,
massages them with cream,
watching late-night TV soak in too.
Dreaming of the day his feet feel light,
not weighed down by the earth,
by the trudge from here to there.
Someday he’ll kick up all those heels at once,
caper and jig with gazelle grace,
leaving a smoky trail of shed callouses.
For now, he lumbers onward,
my lichen-coloured, bark-backed friend,
letting the toenail thicknesses pay the way.
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