(for Georgann)

You got me in the chair the first time,
my feet marinating in a small pond
of warm, swirling water.

This is gonna change your life,
you assured me.

Painted toenails? I wondered.

The from-the-knees-down massage,
you said, and yes, polka dot toes.

Sometimes I go solo
as a woman named Mandy
scrubs my calloused feet baby fine,

her back curled into a comma
over my lower limbs as I give
thanks for her strong hands

kneading my calves into
submission. Told ya, you
whisper from your spot

in the firmament, as the big
chair’s magic fingers work
their way up my spine.

Mandy’s apron reads,
“I can’t change the world,
but I can change your nails.”

She does far more than that,
her sure hands polka dotting
my toes a warm bubble gum pink,

which you would admire, though
you’d choose something bolder
for yours—maybe Big Apple red—

both of us wiggling our tootsies
after women like Mandy set us
firmly back on our cleaned feet,

our worlds brightened, if not
changed, by such a professional
paint job, such kind attention

delivered with a wisp of color.