Summertime, I slip ice
into the neck of my water bottle —
long, thin strips from a special tray
whose cubes resemble icicles.
In the winter I step
onto the welcome mat
to taste the air and get a feel
for how many layers I’ll need.
You can prepare for some things.
Others fall on you like
meteors ripping open the sky.
My brain-injured friend
has difficulty
forming coherent sentences.
One day we were making plans
to run the Disney World Marathon.
Then she was pushing a walker,
finding it hard to navigate
corners in her house.
Life, and all it grants us,
is but a short-term loan.
Most acquaintances
don’t understand why I rise
so early to pound pavement
in never-ending loops.
Because I can.
Because I can.