When you just gotta have
that salty sweaty thing
that tastes like Spring’s first oyster,
over-ripe cheese,
the crusts of moldy yeast bread
we sometimes get as treats
Her feet
like those flour-sack bags of hamhocks
hanging over the butcher’s counter
their smell wafting out
to my (left – or right) nostril
While she casually orders ground chuck,
a couple’a steaks, a pound of bacon
unknowing of my misery
being tethered so closely to something
that aromatic
Like a drunk to the bottle
I’m drawn
gnawing until the leather gives way to my warm wet mouth
The rubber soles, strong at first, reduced to tiny flecks of
Tasty
gritty
gristle
The buckle I’ll save til later
The Last Birkenstock ©nancymccrary