Thursday, July 24, 2008

80 Steps: A Poem About Being Out of Shape

80 steps.
Four landings
with benches. Thank God.

Down is bad enough.
But up?
Bring oxygen tank.

Mr. Peevie grins
and runs past me
up the stairs.

The show-off.
I hate him.
Maybe he'll trip.

At the bottom
we kick off crocs and
cross a soft, sandy beach.

At the top,
if I make it,
the pool, the playground, the cottage.

Maybe I'll just stay on the beach a little longer,
and postpone the inevitable climb
up 80 steps.

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