In the name of God, stop a moment,
cease your work, look around you.
― Leo Tolstoy
Clark Kent had his telephone booth,
the old man had his run.
An hour of movement, feeling the air.
Far fresher at eight-thirty in the morning.
He moved stiffly, then less stiffly.
Before you knew it, he was bent into the wind
and wondered how hard he could go
before he got tired enough to ask himself,
why the hell, remind me again,
why are we doing this?
He had slept through the entire night
without giving a shit.
Finally meshing his somnolent being
with his waking self.
So, of course, his weight was up.
That was good, too.
A Spanish-speaking work crew
resurfaces the streets in the neighborhood.
English-language signs, red and white, warn
Paving This Side Today.
Other signs across the street,
Paving This Side Tomorrow.
Enough to confuse the old man.
Do I holler “Hola!” or not?