A runner passes,
bobbing like the needle
on a slow-moving sewing machine,
flickering in the sunlight
that falls through the trees,
as if dematerializing,
diminishing,
till he's not much larger
than an exclamation point.

I stop to talk to a dog.
Her name is Sadie,
her owner says.
Friendly name for a dog, I say.
I stop for a fuzzy cat.
It looks severe
but, uncatlike,
comes right up to me.
Charlotte, its name tag says.
Clearly a feline of lineage.

Bicyclists pass:
some properly uniformed
in Star Trek helmets and Spandex,
some violating the dress code shamelessly;
families with kids on small bikes,
littler ones in child seats and trailers,
like passengers in limousines;
guys with babes
deeply décolletéd,
some with mates more sedate.

I walk, don't ride.
My wife took my bike away
for my eightieth birthday.
You're too old to bike, she said,
I don't want to have to take care of you
if you fall and break something.
Bye-bye bike;
after all these years
my biking days finis.
Got no ticket to ride,
but I don't care.
The bike path's still there
and I can ambulate,
as my stepfather,
born in 1895,
was fond of saying,
on shanks' mare.


© by Richard Greene.
Used with the author's permission.