Bit Of Old Meatloaf In My Shoe Poem by John W. McEwers

Dressing for my date,
I slipped a foot into my best shoes
and found a piece of months-old meatloaf.

I considered its origin,
the last time I'd worn the good shoes,
then a flash of inspiration,
and I considered if it weren't meatloaf,
but Meatloaf,
6 inches tall, humming 'Anything for Love, '
He would complain about the smell,
but be otherwise accepting.
He would lounge on a small lawn chair,
peaking over the heel,
munching miniature barbeque potato chips,
and though vaguely suicidal,
I imagine he would taunt me
to put him in my mouth,
a provocation uncomfortably inviting,
like a step-sister's bikini,
and a terrible decision must be made.

Shoe meatloaf tastes bad.