I liked the way my feet looked in the reflection of the oven.
I liked the way the light flowed in from outside onto my bare feet. I liked that I could see my ankles. I like all of that.
I feel the poet in me stir at the thought. my sun kissed toes, wandering through the light onto pail blue carpet.

the poet is what bends my back, (caused my hunch).

I am a poet, and being so, I am strange. I love the sound, of something familiar, that makes me feel at home.

I am a poet, barefoot on a swing. Growing old at 16. And we lament! poets do, of our past lovers, and the hands that made us cum.
I've had too many lovers in my time (yet not enough (sex)).

"and yes I did", whispered the poet, "like the sun on my toes, and the way they looked, on pale blue carpet."