My foot displays a big bold bunion,
As if it sprouts a winning onion.            
It sticks out so far to the side,
My walk is not a point of pride.   

To grant a gait more like a queen
The doctor needs to intervene:
Procedures not for squeamish eyes,
Rip flesh to bone and pulverize,

Then fasten what remains with screws.
Until, Foot up and leave off shoes.​
Here's pills to deal with searing pain.
(A few weeks more and it may wane.)

Why lumber with enormity
When toes can find conformity?
A fit foot, fleet; no lump to rue.
So do repeat, please. Iíll take two.

Susan de Sola

If you have any comments on this poem, Susan de Sola would be pleased to hear from you.