Toe Nail Bite

It comes with the pressure. Along shiny
smooth surface run narrow files, tight
ranks. Fresh dead strut forward daily.
At the front they jut out in flight
above the tender, soft surface
below. Oldest show yellow wear;
they are somewhat bent from long service.
Errant edge columns diverge from their
course. They march to the side, and
down. There, pressed too tight,
they pressure their way to painful land.
Into the soft, where no nail should bite.
There it is too deeply ingrown
to halt, but can I still run?

© B. Jason Reardon
12/10/99