All day I\'m sluggish. Stiff, before I strip,
I check my ankles, knees and legs. I jab
my will—it opens just enough to slip
me out. I prep Excel and stopwatch, grab
my shoes and shades. More weight, less strength—I dip
away from home, the common waits below.
The tunnel passed, my body signals loud
if lungs and legs are shot, or only slow.

Just slow is nice. Head up I pad half-bare
and stroll past fields and bushes, trees, hills, clouds,
along dirt tracks, caressed by scented air.
But shot—with creaking, heavy old-guy bones
tight breath, back aching, shins sore, nagging cares,
I lug my shower-longing hulk back home.