It greets me daily, begs
to be walked like an elderly dog,
shadows my slow ballet
of coffee and dry toast.
No running allowed, only stiff-hipped
rage propelling each leg forward
until the street begins to slide past,
as the years have slipped away,
the child’s effortless glissade.

I rest on the bridge in the park,
a frog’s deep grumble reverberates  
through my bruise of muscle
and bone.  A mimosa branch trembles
through the railing, a green hand 
extended toward mine, I reach out
to what reaches for me. Trunk and leaf
shift to the high wild tremolo
roiling in my head.  I call
my pain to me, embrace its warm fur.