I'd settled in at seven miles-per-hour
on the treadmill, doing pretty well,
thinking of antelopean grace and power,
Nigerian marathoners, and gazelles.
With lions nipping at my youthful heels,
frustrated cheetahs tumbling to a stop,
vital, I knew how the roadrunner feels,
Coyote sidestepped, honking as he drops.
The lights went out. The treadmill stopped like death.
My ankles sprung; my chest hit the controls.
Hobbled, bruised, knocked out of my breath
I felt embarassed and suddenly old.
You can't prepare for unexpected stops.
Behind, the smirking lions lick their chops.
1 comment:
I like the way you turn a perfectly ordinary domestic incident into something resonant of older, more dangerous stuff. There's a hint of humor, but those lions at the end are serious.
Post a Comment