I haven’t laughed
at his cricket batsman’s cap
since the first day he stepped out
on that deck, in seersucker pants,
wrists and neck buttoned,
and aligned his feet
as in a recollected bowling stance.
All over town men his age
are carving houses full of
minuscule furniture, or painting
every barb of every feather
on more-than-lifesize Canada geese,
and he could be locked in
all day talking to the cat
or waiting at table for anything
to happen. He steps off, lifting
out of eight decades one foot
at a time, fists churning
like a shadowboxer’s.
It looks like sprinting under water,
the way he runs down
just in time for the far
railing and waits for breath
to catch up. Feeling
his way back along shingles,
his hands fend the house off.
He understands what, given time,
we all learn: teeth are temporary
and speed is relative to the air’s
private resistance and the personal
pull of gravity. He begins again,
knowing not enough steps taken
often enough could end him at the P.O.
shirtless, in shorts, under
a campaign hat banded with safety pins.
Workout
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