After a shower, I assess my toenails,
cartilage balanced on each toe
like a tabletop, hard stubs marred
with flecks, chips, cracks,
and maybe on the big one,

a milky patch of fungus.
The two smallest are bare,
newborn pink piggies,
while others have survived
electrifying collisions
with bed casters
in unfamiliar hotel rooms.

I count the sorrows,
on each piggy
that strayed to market
instead of staying home
comatose in front of the flat screen:
four funerals, two biopsies,
one totaled Nissan,
and a regimen of chemo
since I painted them last.

Do toenails grow after death?
Or does the flesh shrivel
under the chitin plates
making them look longer?
Who would notice?

I dip the brush
then lacquer each square
with a protective coating,
a single layer of blood red
to cover seeping.