Feet aren’t just for smelling - A love poem

I stepped into the shower with my socks on

they needed to be washed -

My feet, I mean -

are awful to smell

Like a portion of beef and kidney pie

gone rank with mold -

Forgotten for six months or so

discarded toward the back of the refrig

crumpled in the bottom bin

of the crisper section known as

the strict vegetarian’s revenge

What environmental or genetic traits

stamp families with their own repugnant

personal lima beans of history that are

passed on from generation to generation

shadowing names and occupations

in odours that linger for centuries

on tarsal and metatarsals

spreading over heels and ankles

in legendary airborne fallout that assures

my ancestors to be the original Morris Dancers

With bells on their legs mandated by law

traversing the countryside

not in celebration but to warn others -

of a stench soon to come

Another aromatic phenomenon also recorded

by the “Log of the Mayflower”

The scenario of my relatives embarking

at Plymouth and other ports

perhaps offers an explanation why

there were so few passengers who wished

to make the original voyage

And perhaps also offers a reason why

they had to leave the old world --

Their feet stunk to high heaven

which was misconstrued as a quest

for religious and not nasal freedom

But then again people were a lot less tolerant long ago -

Alongside, aunts uncles brothers and sisters

not to speak of my father and mother

who always referred to our collective feet

as having a pungent

but yet refined odour as if the bouquet

was of a rare cheese Stilton or Cotswold

that ennobled or enlightened our distinction

A family of uniqueness at least essence wise

Not like my lover of today

as she stands there her open-toed shoes beckoning

nails gleaming form lacquered care

And all she asks

is that I leave my sneakers and socks

in another room

and sometimes my feet with them

And sometimes I wonder

what it would be to have feet

like my lover’s -

Perfectly smooth like porcelain

from some imperial collection

with a painted glaze that first attracts

and then brings a desire to touch

and then stroke satiny contours with moist fingertips

wetted by a mouth hungering to place lips

between toes which curl in raptures of deep secrets

that defies promised tomorrows

of long air-conditioned afternoons

As I suck and lick

first one toe then another

Excited by a sense of colour

as if I can taste passion

I devour her without fear

of interruption or offense

from noxious scent or flavour

As my own feet quiver and spasm

with nervous anticipation

And I am overcome -

by a sensation when words are all forgotten

let alone their meaning

And the smell from the juicy pulp

of an open persimmon permeates the room

where Odilon Redon’s orgiastic pastels

of red-red-red flowers transform themselves

into shimmering butterflies which begin

to sigh in a mating ritual

Bringing with quick breaths

different aromas from the deepest chambers

pleasuring our soles

Which heighten our sense of mystery

overcoming

any image or remembrance

of my awful feet

and their piquant history.

Didn't make dinner reservations for Saturday night?

Your favorite restaurant booked? Consider the option of a V-Day lunch, followed by a romantic walk in the park, a movie or even some afternoon delight in a boutique hotel.

There are many fine restaurants offering outstanding lunch deals on V-Day. A quick check on opentable.com reveals tables available at Daniel, Nougatine at Jean Georges and soon-to-be-shuttered, but outstanding nonetheless Fleur de Sel. You can really look good and score points by coming up with a 3-star of 4-star meal, even if it's not Saturday evening.