She’s the real deal.
Streamlined, aerodynamic.
She glides right past me at the track.
No knee or ankle supports.
No plodding.
Gazelle like and bright.
Her name should be Lululemon Athletica.
Does speed sacrifice alignment?
Sure, but I reject these sour grapes.
This is my time.
The elder in me requires care.
And youth forgives form.
Later she leans against the fence.
Smoking her cigarette, breathing greedily.
I change course to avoid the acrid, the stink.
My brow begins to knit.
Don’t start, I tell myself.
From the archives:
I answered my own question
All of the roads they did lead here
To mend
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