No.26

The sun beats down more heavily

on this little morning patch.

Its weight slamming onto the concrete

like a cartoon anvil.

Everything it touches

immediately molton-

The floor, a cushion, my foot.

I watch my foot melt over the step,

gloopy, fleshy, messy.

Splodging down onto the step below.

The heat causing the air above to shimmer giddily.

I imagine the foot in a frying pan, 

sizzling brightly, exuberantly.

Turning golden brown,

a diathermy smell filling the air.

I see the foot shrivel in the drying rays,

withering to a third of its usual size.

It resembles a relic of ancient Egypt, 

curled at the edges, bereft of moisture, crinkled, brittle.

I shut my eyes to the sun's leering stare.

When I open them, 

my foot is a foot is a foot.