Blisters
By
BR Schoenbein
©2014
Walking down the hot road,
Crunch, crunch, crunch,
My feet, tired, sweaty, burning,
Uhm, blisters perhaps, just a hunch.
Little volcanoes erupting on my feet,
Rubbing toe to toe against the road,
Blazing hot and steamy while,
On aching shoulders a massive load.
A drowsy little village afar off,
With miles yet to go,
And prairie meadows to cross,
Creeks winding south as they flow.
Casting aside my ponderous load,
I yell...off with my shoes!
Pour water on my red-hot wounds,
My achy feet scream from overuse!
Oh, how I praise my roll of duct tape,
When I wrap these ugly white-hot,
Feet until they stop screaming,
Their accusations come to nought!
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