(Or, On Not Running and Stuff)
Now is the winter of our smug content
Turned abhorrent summer by this desert sun;
And all the rain that lour's on the Northwest
Is in the deep cockles of our hearts dreamt of.
Now are our brows crowned with execrable sweat;
Our leather seats covered with beach towels;
Our fiery sidewalks used to fry up breakfasts,
Scorching steering wheels driven with oven mitts.
Sweat-tainted clothes ousted one-starched threads;
And now, instead of heading out to play
To fill the air with joyful intonations,
We hunker lamely in a curtained hallway
Under the tempering blades of ceiling fans.
But I, that am not shaped for staying put,
Nor made to linger under roofs, looking out;
I, that am aptly shod, and want nothing more
To run along a carp-laden canal;
I, that am curtailed of this activity,
Cheated of pastime by loathsome injury,
Wounded afflicts, sent before my time
Into the PT's world, rife with hip pain,
And that so lame and achy each waking hour
My dog barks at me as I halt her run;
Why, I, in this weak, fragile state of health,
Have no delight to pass away the time
Without to spy my shadow in the sun
And abandon my damn'd discomfiture:
And therefore, since I cannot prove a runner,
To entertain these long, feverous days,
I am determined to prove a swimmer
And hate the parching hours of these days.
Plots have I laid, exertions ambitious,
By desp'rate suspicions, brainstorms, and dreams,
To set my bothersome him and myself
In joyful reunion with each other:
And if my PT be as good and deft
As I am bruised, marred, and decrepit,
This plan should my hip surely be healed up,
Hoping a green light she gives, and run
On the canal this sportswoman shall go.
Heal hip, down to my bones: pool,
Here I come.