Locomotor

I am trying to stoke a fire

inside this engine

of muscle and bone.

It once trekked mountains.

It once carried them.

It danced, it leapt,

it whirled, it stepped

swift and sure and strong

but I have not used it;

I have let it laze and linger

and now it rusts.

The gears grind

when they turn.

They protest and pop,

they groan and grumble.

I have let them learn to ache

when the sun comes up,

when the rain rushes in,

when the chill pulls it blanket up.

No more.

No more.

I have been swallowing tinder.

I am coughing sparks already,

I am knocking off the burrs

and oiling the joints already

and will soon be under way.

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