Tough Feet

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Whenever I touch the tough patches on my feet,
I wonder if I could pass as a lady.
I have soft arches, spots which have rarely touched the earth.
But the balls of my feet are solid.
I can tap on them and they talk back to me.
I remember The Moon Lady, Gone with the Wind,
and that episode of the Simpsons.
A rich girl’s feet, a lady’s hands, a seamstress’ finger.
Where am I on this spectrum of skin?
Am I Girl of the Limberlost solid?
Am I Grapes of Wrath durable?
What do I get to aspire to be,
When my feet are hard from walking on gravel
and my hands are tough from climbing up trees?
I tap my feet and wonder –
Do ladies get to have such fine things as callouses?

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Drown Myself

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Drown Myself

I’d drown myself in whiskey,
Except I have to drive
And I suppose I’m better off
Sober and alive.

I’d drown myself in kisses,
Except I have no beau
And I suppose I’m better off
With no one else in tow.

I’d drown myself in water,
But that would be cliche
And I suppose I’m better off
Living one more day.

I’d drown myself in sorrow,
Except I have no tears
And I suppose I’m better off
When I can summon cheers.

I’d drown myself in darkness,
But I’m so fond of light
And I suppose I’m better off
With a little vim and fight.

I’d drown myself.
I’d drown myself…
But I have much to do.
And I suppose I’m better off
And so, I bet, are you.