A Dancing Feat


What are the tops of feet called?

Yours are as smooth as a lathered bathtub

And always navigate where my feet crawl.

They are the definition of “snug,”


Putting me to sleep with their heat,

Even if my sheets are cold and torn,

Old or bored, full of deceit, complete

With thoughts of us being two soles worn


Out. They are always the same, not knowing

How to change, like wine stains or the chance

That we never liked each other’s writing.

Still my feet look for yours and do a dance


Under these blue sheets. Now I lie to my feet,

Dancing in these sheets, in order to sleep.