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
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