Reena Prasad writes

Treadmilling

The numbers blur and move again.

Feet trudge on. Left following right,
telescoping metres into kilometres.
Pace steady, the steps not quite so.
Destined to race till time grows
hoarse. A winged creature worms
into the machinery carting the pacer
across fences where black roses
drink in dew and a chameleon cocks
a reddish-brown head. Familiar voices
discuss family finance. A school bell
clangs summoning summer camps.
A smoke train chugs across a palm-
groves border to a monsoon-soaked
terrace where a girl twirls with her
absent lover, her skirt billowing into
the evening. The window then turns
dark; a nightingale's cry in the night
echoes from sleepless vigils, smells of
disinfectant, a broken guitar and ricochets
off Death ogling from a cracked pane.
A lost mind sings from a locked house,

the song carrying on without any key.
Weddings and honeymoons stumble
along. No time to look back at broken
vows as steel tracks transform into
heavy aircrafts and a machine beeps.
Half an hour on a treadmill, trying to pat
broken pottery into soothing shapes.

 

Self Portrait Painting Myself While Running on a Treadmill -- John Kilduff