Ode to Extremities

Oh, my spread-toed grippers, tender treaders,
Hardy steppers, stampers in the daily dance,
My left one, my right one,
Knuckled old servants, veined and vulnerable.
I greet you and celebrate
You who now stand and bear the weight
Of this hanghead.

“Stood up,” they call it
After you two
Steady here holding me
Mate beside mate.

You know what we’ll do, old ruggeds?
We’ll all walk away.