Wednesday, May 29, 2013


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.

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