Cracked, like the skin of
a sun-parched russet
you’ll hang happily
from the end of my legs
and we’ll not think
about one or another

but when you split
and you flake
I’ll wince with guilt
while you try to ache
But you won’t hear
my sincere sorrys

I know what you do
you know
where you’ve been
what you’ve seen
I know I can be mean

You hard-souled props
that hide in my socks
and let fly at leather
on Sunday

It won’t do to be soft
on you - but know
it’s work I appreciate
and consider this
my thanks
for all that you’ve done
for me
dear Feet.