Your Toe’s End

Nails, like pedals, grow long, sweet.

Paint them pink, cause my toe, unnecessary,

but obliged shall question my decorated sneakers.

From this morn what shall today I wear?

What will I smoke, what shoe… my shoe…

What, what, what.

Blah, blah. Let live instead.

Just for me.

I get high and slide, then touch my toes.

Tonight I eat like others.

(Don’t let my panties distract your toe from its end now.)