Our group of elders was eating
salad.
I’d dropped tomato on the floor:
slowly, I bent to pick it up.
I was lost underwater,
dizzy, not in a forest of kelp,
but of feet and legs.
My friend opposite wore open sandals
so I had a close-up of his toes –
mature, damaged goods.
What stories were encoded in each,
of hikes, steep climbs, balls
kicked,
caresses of a lover?
History locked beneath thickened
nails,
inside calluses, beside bent bones;
his mind
had begun to follow the same
trend.
One day gene science and IT may
let us read
the code of history in each toe.
But would we really wish to know?
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