TAKING A WALK

Get the fuck off your ass,
I said to myself,
that's all the fuck you do,
I continued,
sit on your ass
all fucking day at work,
all fucking night at home,
and complain:
about your weight,
about your lungs,
while twisting
the arms
of old ladies
to buy your shit,
by day,
or to fall in love
with your bullshit
at night--
daisy-chaining words
to assholes and elbows.
After dinner,
I concluded,
you're gonna walk.

I was sixty-five.
Diabetes and smoking
and boozing had already
done its damage:
a blood blockade
to my pump and pistons.
The only things I could do
to halt the knocking
of Mr. & Mrs. Death
on my front door
was putting down the smokes
and kicking out the jams.
The last was eating "right."
But that I'd do later,
I reasoned.
You don't want to do
too much
too soon.

And so,
after eating
a pound and a half rib-eye,
baked potato
with butter/sour cream/chives,
and creamed spinach,
I had coffee
and New York cheesecake
for dessert.
I finished the last
of the coffee
with a Lucky, my last Lucky
I resolved, while Brian Williams
told me what I already knew:
winter had wrapped its arms
around the northeast
in a death grip.

I rubbed my Buddha belly
placed my two hands firmly
on the arms of the chair
and hoisted myself
up from the table.
I cleaned the dishes
and grabbed my hat, wool scarf,
coat, and sheepskin lined gloves.
Brian said something
about Chinese hacking
which I couldn't give a fuck about,
but this time found interesting.
I halted, but didn't stop.
I was determined
to live
a few extra years.
It was about ten steps
to my front door.
I made six of em
before I opened
the doors
to my icebox.
I took out
two pints of Haagan-Dazs,
(it was nice to have the gloves on),
and put them on the counter
to soften.
I had to back up
two steps to do that.
The rest of the retreat
was easy.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2013