My ponderous legs
chug and churn
up the hill
as if laden
with cinder blocks,
or 25-pound sacks of flour
intended for that pizza
place
over by the Kroger.
Any moment now….
I wait for the crack --
the gunshot-like snap of a
hamstring
to echo through the
neighborhood,
bouncing off of the tidily
manicured Tudor
over to the stack stone
façade
of the house with the man
who always cuts his grass
too low.
In a minivan
the lady from the cul-de-sac
motors by,
chatting on her iPhone –
snickering, no doubt,
at the idiot who looks near
cardiac arrest
as he lumbers by the
mailbox
at 1252.
I lift an index finger
in recognition of her,
so as not to appear rude.
Thankfully,
I quit smoking 10 years ago,
or I’d be bent over on the
sidewalk,
hacking up a lung
(or some suspicious
viscera)
by the freshly painted fire
hydrant
at the bottom of the hill.
Or perhaps I should’ve
never quit.
And instead
lapsed into middle age,
Archie Bunker-like:
a comfy chair to cradle me,
and a TV tray
with a ham and swiss on rye
as my reward
for a day well done.
