So many hammer toes and flat feet stubbing these corrugated stairs, these concrete ramps leading up to falling down. Your feet ground you, people! Your flip-flops and unsecured ankles will spell a landscape of fire for your knees, your hips, your spinal columns. No opiate derivates can dull or extinguish the glory of a solid pair of shoes. I’ve seen your arches. They will not last.
They’re backed up. Obstructed. They’re all backed up.
They’ve begun to assemble, to congeal, to clump into configurations I dust with flour and into which I whisk eggs and salt, a cloudy confection of eyes and breath and lips. It’s money, it’s all money, and it’s yours, it’s all yours.
“Smile,” the cameras implore, “show us some teeth.”
“That’s not how it works,” I wag, folding them—with a pinch of cinnamon—into the batter.
Matthew Woodman teaches writing at California State University, Bakersfield and is the founding/managing editor for Rabid Oak. His stories can be found in Tishman Review, Drunk Monkeys, Oblong, and The Moth.