Terry Savoie
Text & Context


Waking up long after
a divorce & second
marriage, somewhere inside

the middle of a weeknight,
confused, not exactly
certain who she is who is

lying near him, her
delicious back against
his, her mind floating off in some faraway

dream he could not ever possibly
share, he laughs to himself
so that his laughter is dwarfed,

smothered in the bedsheets. How
hopelessly funny, not
knowing who she is. He wonders if,

in some other bed, that other, his first
love, is awkwardly startled
midway inside her deep sleep as she recalls

what they did & how
they did it: tongues
& lips & big toes & their endless

protestations of love, love un-
dying. How is such love
lost? It must, he thinks, be tucked away,

rolled inside a pair of old athletic socks
secreted in his dresser drawer,
&, at time such as these, in

the dead of the night,
dug out to be admired
for what it once was & what it will forever be.
Doctor, Doctor


At the Sun Rise Nursing Home
old women
queue up outside the foot

doctor's make-shift office,
ten, fifteen, sometimes twenty
deep early in the morning

of the second
Monday of each month
to have him attend to

their toes, clipping
those thick, brown, horny crusts
that once, not so long ago,

in improbable pink
nail polish, graced the leather
of summer beach sandals,

to have him down
on his knees, their callused
heels resting

for a brief moment against
this man's muscled foreleg,
their bunions singing,

their misshapen toes,
squeezed for too many years
into high heels,

massaged & lotioned,
dancing once more to the tune
of his soft, firm hands.