The Sad Podiatrist

Lauren Williams wrote a poem about the sad anthropologist

spurring me on to write one about my mate, Arthur,

the sad podiatrist I see three times a year. We’re like mates.

When someone’s been intimate with your feet for such a stretch of time

what else can you call the relationship?

Usually he’s perky, upbeat but today he’d downcast even though I praise

him for finishing my feet in record time.

Just think, I say, you earn more in three minutes than most people earn in an hour but he protests that it’s not about the money.

When I ask him what it is about, he blurts out the old abstracts: Recognition, Glory, Adulation.

Wow, I thought, where’s this coming from?

And he says: “When did you last read a best seller about a podiatrist? Watch a Reality Show called, ‘The Good Foot

Doctor’. See a film with Tom Hanks, Chris Hemsworth, De Niro playing a podiatrist?”

He has a point. I sympathise with him, then he shakes my foot — he always shakes the right one — and I head out the

door, hoping he pulls his socks up before the next patient comes in.

pic courtesy of Wikipedia




What it’s Like

You wanna know what it’s like? He says.

I’ll tell you what it’s like.

It’s like walking around with a ‘Vacant’ sign around your neck.

Like being scooped out by an excavator.

Or being a songbird without a voice.

It’s like walking along a jetty studded with couples clinging to each other like barnacles on pylons.

It’s like being on the esplanade ripping into a pulled pork burger like an animal ‘coz you’re on yr own so it isn’t all bad.

That’s what it’s like.


			

Forever Outsiders

Is this you in the photograph? Big, hulking, alone among others, a little menacing?

Writing is an hermetic act. Only other writers understand this. It can be seen as purely selfish . “You are wrapped in yourself,” I have been told more than once. “Bloated with your own self-importance.” Non-writers feel cut off, shut out, alone, forever outsiders. I do not know the answer to this, except to share what we write with our loved ones and hope they do not get envious or jealous of our special gift. Or perhaps it is better not to share, to beat others over the head with our little creations.

Perhaps it is better for writers to pair up with writers, like Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath though we all know what a disaster that turned out to be though I am sure there have been happy unions.

*what do you think?

* this post was inspired by Carolyn Cordon’s most recent post

* photo by alex plesovskich on Unsplash

the T-Shirt Keeps its Cool

_img

The T- shirt isn’t dumb. It knows what’s coming. Soon as I get in the door, I let it rip.

What do you mean, lapping up all the praise? They’re my mates. I didn’t know you’d dominate the conversation. You were shameless.

I didn’t do a thing, the T – shirt says. I just sat there, on you, covering up your flab.

You could have been more inconspicuous.

Hey, you chose me. It’s not my fault you chose a loud T-shirt. And anyway, you know what they say?

What?

If you’ve got it, flaunt it.

You certainly did that.

We look at each other in the mirror for a minute or two.

Anyhow, I say, I still like you. You look great.

Look at it this way, the T-shirt says, the next time you take me out, your mates will be over it. They’ll move onto you.

I guess you’re right, I say. We mustn’t get too precious.

Friends? Says the T-shirt.

Friends, I say and  put my arms around myself, giving the T a good hug.

Thin

di9XgakjT

 

 

 

Thin

 

You’ve always been jealous of thin guys, admit it, so this puny poem is a dig at ultra thinness; the humour hides the venom:

 

Watching this dude

P

A

P

E

R

 

T

H

I

N

 

Amble in,

 

You wonder

How he fits

His insides

In.