My Left Foot

My Left foot

isn’t handsome like Daniel Day Lewis

and though it leans to the left

and occasionally extracts the Michael,

it doesn’t wear a donkey jacket.

Most days, my left foot and I get along fine and dandy

much better than my knees, which make me look bandy.

My left foot has been frozen in snow, soaked in puddles,

stained brown with mud, peat and smelly brown sludge excreted by flatulent bovines.

But just when I need it most, my left foot throws a tantrum.

It  develops an attitude, becomes uptight and high maintenance

like a hormonal teenager it decides it has feelings

and firing stinging barbs into my delicate heel

it pouts, shrugs and declares that it has a Plantar Fascia

and what do you mean you don’t know what it is?

everyone else has one, you are just sooo out of touch!

If it wasn’t for the stabbing pain I am sure my left foot would stamp.

Please,  Plantar Fascia,  fascinating you may be,

but you are strung out like an over wrought piano string

I’m feeling like I stood on a key and there are too many sharps.

It is Friday night, have a glass and relax.

Cut me a little slack, hang loose.

Don’t force me to wrap you up in sticky brown tape

so I can’t hear you scream

while I  kidnap you,  hoping for stockholm syndrome.

There is training to be done in the morning, and my left foot has an appointment with Mr Brooks

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