It's Still Life

The Momentum of a Long Thin Shadow

I.
It feels good to let my head go still,
go quiet as dust. That’s why I walk.
With direction. With momentum. Purpose.
— toward a blue sky horizon,
just beyond the red tiled roof
of the house over there.
Through a landscape damp with winter.

And my momentum is a dementedly thin
shadow, stretched faraway from me.
Away from the low-hung sun; its glare
makes my left eye water like a weasel.
And I have a moderate gliding speed
that my husband thinks too slow,
but I walk, indulge myself in my own

shuffling wake, wondering if physics
is responsible for the cramp in my leg.
Walking. Walking on footpaths slick
with muddy leaves that cling
to my shoes. I’m a greased motor,
off to buy today’s Daily Telegraph
and a pint of milk, and I am lost

in a sway of thoughts underfoot, towed
under by my own bloody-minded momentum.

II.
I was born into the final decade of 78RPM black vinyl records, an RCA turntable merry-go-round with a hand-crank, “The Teddy Bears’ Picnic” playing a clicked static on scratched grooves. That was my childhood — hip-hugger flared jeans, tie-dyed t-shirts, the cold war, those Russians, and 78RPM black vinyl records. I blinked, and suddenly I’m right back where I started again.

written for Miz Quickly’s Day 2