Monday, February 02, 2015


A strung out group of walkers like the gold hunters hiking up the Klondike divide; fast paced leaders; almost all had friends to socialize but me; pretty much alone; wanting to make a statement with my shorts over Polartec pants; kept drifting back; this was a march walk like the Cherokee Trail of Tears; Unable to match the blistering pace of serious walkers who peeked at scenery as it blurred past popping out I pads for quick snaps on the run; we were trucking, on an up escalator, a moving walking like at Jet Blue; eventually I got up to speed and moved into middle ground; but Mr. pink flamingo kept falling back at mile ten; these walkers were relentless; give me a break! slowly the signs are there…the feet, the legs, the hips; can’t stop to drink water; drink on the run and slosh most of the liquid on jacket and chin; gotta keep moving go-go-go; gray sky, gray water, gray passing cars with salt coating the gleam, the polish, the style;  this is a funeral procession to the burial site and I’m the corpse; carry me, carry me, anything to get my boots off the ground; Why do I suddenly weigh fifty pounds heavier?  Feet on fire, legs in pain, creeping up to knees. I talk to my knees…hey knees, keep bending, I’ll take care of you when I’m home. Feet are burning, I feel my heartbeat in my little piggy toes; the N.Y. skyline reminds me of the angler fish, its teeth long sharp needles; there’s Lady Liberty, Ellis Island, Port Liberty posh upscale condos upon condo, private, no trespassing on the meadowland, the nursery place for scaly fish and feathery birds; old rusted tubs they call boats; the industrial park from hell, huge faceless boxy warehouses; a ghost town; we are trapped in a maze of commerce; the man with the flamingo shorts can’t take a picture because he’s busy walking; eats his sandwich as the stuffing falls to the ground; on shoulders of major superhighways, bridges to nowhere; we are in the middle of a mass of spaghetti roads twisting, turning; the blood vessels in his legs feel like they’re bursting; the huge white flat topped circular storage tanks like Jackie Kennedy's pill box hats; I’m thinking “TIME TO BAIL” a bunch of defectors join me to creep off slink away  toward the light rail station which adds a miles to our total up – across – down all on blood vessels in my legs about to burst; the train arrives; I’m thinking YES YES YES the end of torture. The train arrives and he slips into a seat molded to his back, he feels his back and butt melt, the tingle of his feet, his burning legs, OH MY GOD the man with the pink flamingo shorts calls. He looks back to see the group plod on. He rests on his seat like never before.

                                                                                                      Tom Stock