Poem for September 16, 2007

Calisthenics

He must run through the snow filled woods
behind his cabin every morning,
and all day long, and through the night,
or his blood will settle out. It's a heart

condition, his resting beating isn't strong
enough to send the blood to his head.

When people see him doing cartwheels
and chasing small creatures they ask him
how this happened to him.

The earth saw my laziness,
and it threw me away he will answer.

The sky saw my might and drew me closer.

Demons are within me, stand back for
they can jump two yards or more.

I am sensitive to the motions of worms,
and it's unpleasant to leave my feet on the ground.

I clambered up a tree to try and catch up,
but his motivation was stronger, and he was two
trees down the row by the time I reached the top.
So I yelled my question, "what mushrooms do
you see on your morning runs?"

Decay is without end or name he yelled back.

He eats squirrels in mid flight and sleeps when
he can find someone to push him on a swing
made from a rope he carries with him. He will
give a volunteer a section of the rope as payment.

On receiving my section, I asked him what happens
when he runs out.

I will find a very tall hill, and sleep
while I roll. It will be like I was a peanut.

During the night the others who use the forest
for sleep ask him why he keeps running, if
he could keep the blood hot with drink.

My heart will fall through to my groin,
out of place it can't be warmed.

The air tries to pull me apart.

The moon has chosen me for sport,
at least I can be a moving target.

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