My feet ain't dainty, my husband advised one day.
They are tough and cracked, he went on in a sarcastic way.
"Aren't southern women supposed to be soft?" asked my sweetie,
Running his hands over my scratchy feetie.
I wasn't quite sure.
I love to go barefoot and I have big feet.
I love to feel my feet and the grass meet.
Shoes are fine, and I pay my dues,
but nothing beats going sans shoes.
I have cracks in my heels that look like an Alabama ditch
after years of weathering and erosion.
I am constantly slapping foot creams on my feet, which
seem to do little for my foot corrosion.
I have to admit though; they don't bother me a lot
unless they scratch against the sheets and catch,
Or my husband screams when they gash his leg,
It makes him scream and beg.
My feet are a work of art in progress,
They have grown older and changed, it's true,
But they seemed familiar to me, last I looked.
And then, dagblamit, I knew.
I have my mamma's feet.
She has the same timeworn calluses
that I have walked into today
and the same cracks and toughness
that shows her love of walking around in this way.
So we slather the cream and file those nails
and wash them both at night.
We won't worry too much about our feet
because going barefoot just feels so right.