My feet, they are certainly human
	but they look like wafers with worm protrusions
	elongated serpentine growths stretching
	out from my ankles towards the toilet's basin
	my towel and the molding along the crease
	between the floor and the wall.
	Oh, to think my feet have any kind of beautys
	showing only a spawning of worm embryos, maggots
	never meaning to eat rotten meat
	but only to serve as stability and dexterity
	appendages of a natural apparatus any creature of the human kind will have.
	My feet, my own, no matter what they look like, they will always be me.
	I am unworried, without a sense of grotesque sensation.
	For who could possibly think one's own body absurd
	a growth undeserving of love.
	Accept me as I am, and I will forever serve you, my precious kingdom.
Copyright 1997 John Feissel. All rights reserved.