Confronting Mild Elevations
(Apologies To Teddy Roosevelt)
I am on the wrong side of being on time and lately minutes
want nothing to do with me. When I was younger, like a slick racing
bicycle, I had three speeds that I could count on. Two of them have
disappeared completely and the third needs to be massaged and bargained
with. I awkwardly cross the street and confront the hill that leads to my
destination. My calves tense in a parasitic protest and I dig my toes in
the ground to stretch them. There is a car approaching and I gauge whether
I can cross in time. My method is similar to sailors using an astrolabe.
Caution cuts my confidence. Hanging my head, I feel the whoosh air
as the car speeds by. Even a blind turtle could make it now. I jeer at myself
and slowly step off the crumbling curb. I look at the hill and steel my resolve
like those at San Juan Hill.
R. Gerry Fabian is a published writer and poet from Doylestown, PA. He has published five books of poetry: Parallels, Coming Out Of The Atlantic, Electronic Forecasts, Wildflower Women as well as his poetry baseball book, Ball On The Mound.