Walking isn’t exercise
It used to be a break
between sets, the steps
to water fountains and
weight machines, circuits
around hallways, up and down
squares of stadium stairs. In band,
we’d march on beat, left footing
odds. But if Coach saw that legato amble,
we’d sprint until I couldn’t, ’til
the team waited, hunched and done,
clapping for the fat kid to finish
so they could get a drink.
Calves burning, cramping quads,
that blistering heel-to-toe
trek between shelters
and fast-food gigs. After surgery,
the PT said I’d be lucky to walk
normal, her stare so smug over the bridge
of those designer frames. That’s when I started
seeking normal in mid-foot strikers,
toe tappers, heel hitters. Pronated,
pigeon toe-ers, even the mall-
walkers, swivel-hipping and power-
pumping fists past the gabbers
flip-flop flapping. I looked
until I walked crooked
’til crooked felt normal.
