Inked
Hamlet for a moment, you pierced my foot
with a gimlet eye, cradled it aloft
in your hands like an ingot of peat, or
door stop yam or maybe a hay stack of
a Dagwood, critical appraisal
shading to a deli lunch of talus, the
pleasing crunch of metatarsal on rye
toeing a big pickle and a side of slaw.
Imagine my relief then, when, pen in
hand instead of fork, you brought me nearly
to tears tickling arch and Achilles
with a birds nest of blue line, Hamlet
once again, explaining, alas, surgical
technique to one jumpy Horatio.
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