Anti-Ode to My Hammertoe
Bumpy, angry appendage,
bend-of-a-coat-hanger-shaped
lesser digit, with your red
corned ulceration,
as if you drink too much,
useless thing, rebellion
in the genes, running-riot disdain
for the straight life—
you are a complainer.
Why do you hurt me, so like
a lover? You give me such
crap, and then I call you useless,
but only when I’m angry.
When your horny plate at one end
sparkles in red paint,
encased in strappy sandals,
I love you,
or at least need you,
as part of a complete digit set.
Where would I be without
your metatarsal
doing its part to propel me
forward–the direction of life.
Even when crammed into
hideousness, a hard sell
like a surgical shoe,
you fulfill that promise.