—REMEMBER, JOY, SHE’S BEEN GONE A WHILE?

 

Atlantic City

 

No one wants to see your toes. 

But I do.

I love the scrim of dirt under the biggest one that makes it resemble a wallflower hoping to be noticed.

I love the two, almost microscopic hairs no one can see unless their face is right there, up super-close and ready for the surprising strands that look like life lands.

I love how your pinkie twists east, or is it west (?) under different light, like a sunflower either praising, or desperately trying to stay alive.

I’ve been friends with your toes much longer than you know, before there were glaciers or Grand Canyons, before God had even started to think about things and what He might all do with  the mess of it. 

Sometimes we sext, your toes and I, while you’re snoring like the E Street Band doing Atlantic City. On occasion, things can get unruly, if it’s been a while, and your feet won’t stop wobbling.  

I love how gnarly and prehistoric your toes are, like miniature dinosaur nubs, but with the same curled nails, talon-like, sharp as perspective, pointed and opinionated.

I’ve loved your toes forever and still do.

After you’re dead and have been cremated, I’ll dig through the ash looking for them, those stubby digits, and when I find one in the gray flecks, I’ll suck the gunk straight off them, then I’ll move right along to the others. Some people call that gluttony, or sickening. Others call it a smorgasbord.