Hour #6 (Walking without using the word walking)


My legs at first are propellers,

old school and a bit rusty,

needing a good swing to get started.

Each step is an intention

and a decision—or not,

if I go only where my legs take me.


They have their own destination

in conflict with my staid plans.

They expand where I want to retract

and suddenly I am aloft,

my legs become jet engines

roaring with anticipation,

seeking the adventure I too often resist.


They are the masters of these marches,

lifting and striding of their own accord

moving me through streets familiar and foreign

my engine’s contrails marking the journey

and beating the pavements to a pulp.


When at last, in an act of defiance against them,

I feel the weight of the air too heavy

to maintain flight

and descent is imminent,

these marvelous appendages

regain their altitude

and I continue to soar.

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