Nobody Laughed

I cut little notches
in my big toenails,
so the nails grow forward
instead of sideways.

My first form teacher taught me that.
His toenails were gone,
amputated during some
ingrown toenail operations.

He had toes covered
with a pale pink skin
instead of nails
with notches.

Someone stood on his toes once,
in front of the class.
He fell down, making gurglings.
Nobody laughed.

Rubbing up the reader

I glanced my hand across your leg
as you stood in the CNA viewing magazines.
You seemed not to notice my lagging
shoulder -- but you froze in

a posture of tender alarm
while I hid my groin with the bag
of chicken pies I had bought at Spar
and you stared at a picture of a dog.

It was when I turned to brush you again
that I thought of the charming
way you stayed for me. A trap is plain
to see sometimes; I was disarmed.

I looked instead at the same dog that held your eye
but I admit that my gaze slunk down to your thigh.