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He's out there again,
my neighbor, the doctor,
waiting for the snow plow
to pass so he can jog
on a clean street.
It's 5 a.m. and we've had
three inches of snow
and it's still coming down
but nothing can stop him.
Doc jogs every morning,
good weather or bad.
This morning we meet
because I'm out spelunking
in the snow and the dark
for my morning paper.
Going through his warm-ups,
he invites me once again
to join him for a jog, an
invitation he extends when
we meet on dark mornings.
As I have before, I tell him
I know I'll arrive soon enough
in Cadaverville and have
no desire to get there faster.
Months ago, I told him
about articles in the paper
three or four times a year
indicating that another
otherwise healthy man has
dropped dead jogging.
I tell him that's not a good thing.
One of the deceased, I mention,
was a cardiologist like him.
Couldn't remember his name
but he was young, too, with kids.
I go on to explain that I am
a believer in Recliner Therapy,
something I find very beneficial.
I add that I've never heard of a soul
dropping dead in a recliner
though I admit that could happen
but so far I have seen no mention
of such a tragedy in the paper.
Thirty years my junior at least,
this young doctor who jogs
asks what I do for exercise
as he puffs through his warm-ups.
I tell him I push all the way back
in my humongous recliner
at least three times a day
and wiggle my toes, grab
a Kleenex and blow my nose.
I tell him I believe in a
holistic, head-to-toe
approach to exercise.
The snow plow finally passes
and the young doctor chuckles,
hikes up his sweat pants
and jogs off, arms swinging,
through flakes of snow.
© by Donal Mahoney.
Used with the author’s permission.
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