She blithely skips up the stairs
On legs capable of wearing dripping pink sequins
Attached to backless dresses mere mortals cannot fathom.
“Come on,” she chirps.
My legs, sturdy columns, bend like wrought iron.
My feet follow in half-hearted humor,
As one laughing at a friend’s too-obvious punchline.
“You wanted to train – this is training!”
This is not training.
This is trudging.
With a bag full of groceries and in socks meant for trousers,
I can only move forward and hope that my calves are getting ready
For harder inclines than the gentle overpass offers.
“Aren’t a I good friend?”
You’re a good friend.
But before I can acknowledge this too-obvious truth
There you go floating down the next stairway
And I, momentous stone, must roll down after you.