Podiatrist (1951)

I cleaned Dr. Willis' office.

On hands and knees,
I swept toenails and peelings of callous,
what trimmed feet leave,
and dumped them with disgust
in the trash. 

The floor was the color of blood
and the nails I missed
were as sharp in my scrub rag as teeth. 
I was relieved
that no one I knew was a patient. 

Now words I clip
I deposit directly in the trash.
I treat my poems
in the way Dr. Willis treated feet;

I scrape and trim
and rub lotion
into skin where it's hurting.
I scrub each line,
apply wax,
let it dry, and then buff it.

What I achieve
is always more than expected.
And the poems: they shine!