Well how about the dogs sleeping there Max ?
Cheers P back from holiday
-----Original Message-----
From: Poetryetc: poetry and poetics [mailto:[log in to unmask]] On
Behalf Of Max Richards
Sent: 04 August 2010 08:37
To: [log in to unmask]
Subject: snap: in extremis
In Extremis
For many years I and my feet
got on perfectly together,
they carried me long distances,
and jumped at times for joy.
Not so lately.
There now, in my sad socks,
they've earned their name
'extremities'.
No sooner in bed
each night, winter
or summer, than
they prickle with cold -
something to do with
circulation of the blood -
in this case
non-circulation.
Without visiting
mountain-tops or the poles,
I feel I understand
the horror of frost-bite,
the little deaths
of toenails and toes
of adventurers
you read about
and think 'Rather
them than me'.
Safe in bed,
under eider
or doona,
pyjama-ed I
can roast and dream.
Feet are on some
other path, numb.
Sleep supervenes,
till shifting in bed
chill foot stirs me
back into wakefulness.
(Lucky the man
with nothing worse
to complain of.)
Hotwaterbottles?
you ask. They scorch
without warming.
What was that film
with Anthony Quinn
invited to some igloo,
thawing feet between
eskimo breasts?
For this I chafe.
Max Richards
Midwinter Melbourne
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