They are the ones who leave prints in the house. I am the one who defends them. Ten dirty toes, long digits and painted clothes like others. Ten who belong in shoes but are not. Ten rank excuses that help me balance. From my view, I can smell them, but Cleo licks them and doesn’t mind the color.

Their pink is secret. They send giant arms into the dirt. They kick up and they mash down and grab the sap between their hard calluses and pinch the ants with vigorous tendons and never quit their march. This is how they walk.

Let one forget to lift up, they’d all crumple like rocks off a cliff, each with their nails in the other. Throbbing, throbbing, throbbing they feel when I run. They harden.

When I am too tired and too sore to keep moving, when I am an old woman from many years, then I will look at my toes. When there is nowhere left to go. Ten who hardened despite shoes. Ten who throbbed and do not forget to lift. Ten whose only reason is to keep me up and not fall.