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.
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