Afternoon Feet

On my back, shitty mood, 
watching my feet go pigeon-toe to splay, 
duck-foot and back again,
like a pair of windshield wipers.
 
I tell them stop but
they pretend not to hear me.
My disembodied brain 
cedes command: I'm the audience.
 
They’re smacking each other,
like Punch and Judy
They’re singing duets
of the synchronized swaying kind.
 
They’re making love,
massaging grateful insteps,
which could be why
they won't stop when I tell them.
 
And now in an interval.
the big toes sidle together,
nodding in agreement,
tsk-tsking my afternoon lassitude.