Most of the time, it's just terrible.
You're sweating and huffing, you have to control your breathing
and your gait. You must watch out for the people around you.
People never cheer you on; at best they nod and step aside
while looking at your generous belly or the way sweat drips
from your second chin. They never congratulate your effort
to look better; they merely think how much worse you'd look
if you weren't doing that.
But every once in a while, an inhale will force your back straight
and your eyes up, and the colorful world you've ignored for a mile
is right in front of you. There are houses that broke someone's back to make,
a family who lives inside and tends to the roses and poppies.
There are bees brushing pollen on the backs of their legs before they lift
like tiny helicopters, delivering their payload to the next petals, and the next.
There are dogs, babies, cats, toys and sunlight.
There is wind and scent and traffic lights and cars
and there's you, a part of this scene moving through
not perfect, but not bad, with every right to be there.
And when you collapse, soaked and exhausted
on your bed there's the knowledge of tiredness earned,
a sense of accomplishment that won't replace the construction of a good home
but gets you just close enough to believe that you can do anything,
if you just push yourself for one more step.
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