THE DAY IS WASTED ON MY RUN (A Poem)

The day is wasted on my run:
Fifty degrees, calm, and clear.
No pollen, dogs, nor drivers.
But something is wrong in my gears:
I go up hills too fast,
Then shamble down them breathlessly.
I huff hyperly,
And like Harper Lee,
I know a masterpiece
When I've authored it.
And I know when I've been mastered.
I should quit.
But, onward I range,
Like an armadillo
Escaped from a cage:
Snorting and shuffling and
Clanking my armored plates
Over leprous flesh
In search of snakes
To divide and devour.
The neighbors with their morning papers,
Made friendly to strangers
By their coffees
And the mellow morn,
Salute the crashing clod-
He of the flailing arms
And failed-spitting face-
With Sunday edition and travel mug.
These are gestures of balletic grace
Which I cannot reciprocate.
It is too much a circus trick
When arms are heavy
And saliva is thick.
My heart appreciates the kindness,
But my reply is stopped.
Stuck somewhere between in and out.
It seems that though the sun
Has halved the shade
On Nall, Linden, and Somerset,
It hasn't righted my rhythm yet.

Thank you for taking the time to read it.
MP

Yes, Virginia, There is a Randy Spoonnoggle

So, I'm bent over my little shovel in the right lane of traffic on I-435, in a blizzard, trying to dig a path from the muck where I had been for about two hours, to the relatively clear left lanes, when the zombies started trudging past. Wearing light jackets and shoes, without hats or gloves, they had abandoned their vehicles. As cold and frustrated as I was, I could not imagine leaving my car in the middle of the highway, as many had. I would shovel, go numb, get back in the car, inch it forward, go out, knock the ice off my wipers, shovel, get back in my car, inch backward, yell profanities... The zombies trudged on. Another man driving a pickup with a camper top was behind me, and making some progress. Eventually, he got close enough that we could communicate. His truck only had rear-wheel drive, but he was trying to follow me out in my tracks. He hacked at the axle-high snow with a hoe, and I shoveled it away from the tires. Hack, shovel, go numb, get in car, other guy pushing, inch forward, repeat ad frustratem. Eventually, all this sound and fury came to something, for me at least, and into the clear lane I slid, knowing I dare not stop to return the favor to that kind man, or I would find myself stuck again. I was free, but not clear, because my fast-approaching exit was blocked by at least three muck-mired cars. I rumbled past, screaming obscenities for the pure release it brought, and looked forward to the next exit, a mile away-and farther away from home. That one was also blocked by derelicts, so, onward and away. The next exit was at State Line Road- the border between Kansas and Missouri- that would have to be my point of departure from the freeway. There were warning messages above the roadway of lane closures ahead, so I would have to go for it at State Line. There were three non-moving conveyances up to their headlights in chop that had tried and failed, but I would make it. With an approach angle, and a thought process both obtuse, I gave the mighty Sportage all the gas she would take...And Kia made four. There I sat, proclaiming maledictions so vile, they couldn't even be written into a Tarantino script, and needing desperately to piss. Out I went into the driving snow, shoveling, scraping ice from the windshield, going numb, reentering the vehicle. I was spent from all the exertion and screaming, and remembering that I had brought food with me, I tucked into my pb&j. My energy, and my need to piss, returned. I recalled reading in a Cub Scout magazine as a kid, that if you wet yourself outside on a cold day, you would suffer rapid heat loss and die. That's why I stepped outside with something other than a sandwich in my hand, and using the car door for wind protection, went about my business as discretely as I could. (Here begins a brief exchange with a law-enforcement officer.) "Sir, we'll be right over there," shouted one of Leawood's Finest, who was in the westbound lanes, helping some other misguided moron get moving. "Take your time, Sir," I replied, which must have seemed weird in the midst of a catastrophe. "Take your time rescuing me, I'll just urinate a while behind the car door while you attend to that good man." A couple of zombies slogged down the exit ramp. I quickly covered all visible flesh. Back into the Sportage, grab the shovel, back out, shovel away the yellow snow, back in, warm up. A while later, a Humvee pulled up nearby. The driver came over. "I'll tow you out of there for twenty bucks." A good deal, for sure, especially since I had made an appointment over the phone sometime in the next four hours for a tow truck at ninety-five dollars. But I didn't have the cash on hand for this Good Samaritan for Profit. "That's OK, I'll push you." And push he did. Mightily. And soon I was unstuck. And shortly thereafter I was home, numb feet and all. Thanks to my smartphone, I was able to capture the man's phone number, and through an exchange of text messages, his name and address. The check is going in the mail tomorrow. Not that I'm driving, you understand. I'm walking that sucker to the nearest mailbox so that the guys who never get stopped by the weather can pick it up. Thanks for reading. Thanks, Randy