Where did you come from,
tiny ball of thorns,
that you would hug my shoe,
and, crushed, yet wander
back with me to my home
where
trodden into my house
and scuffed onto
that sprawling kitchen rug
you let go of my sole
and chose to lay in wait
a day
or days
for that prime moment
to bound from fabric to skin
next time the fool
in bare feet
dragged across your station.

I did and now,
a week later,
the meat of my left hoof
so seeded with your
tiny dagger of irritation
rants
when I gently settle
each step
in hopes of not
triggering that
dull sharp jab of pain.