i want to put
my feet
exactly where
her feet
are, but
her feet
are there, so
i can not
replace them with
mine.
her pants are
a velveteen olive green
and she rolls like
AA baseball jaw
full of chaw.
she rolls as she
undulates
upon the spinning
ribbon that i want
for myself.
so i scoot
and find a seat
a few feet
from her,
sneaking
occasional glances
at the rolling olives
of her treading.
a woman comes in
to the gym
under the pretense
of exercise,
but all she does is
chat with a man who
wears a sleeveless shirt
and sweat streaks
on his streaking arms.
olives rolling
not but a few feet
from me and i
click my eyes
towards them and then
back, to the man
who once maybe had arms
swollen with muscle but
now just has bunched skin like
dried olive.
still he proclaims himself
through the sleevelessness of
his shirt and still
the woman wears her
stretch pants and pants
silently as she chats with
the man and it was
maybe a year ago when
i promised myself that
never again would i buy
pure denim pants but
would always make sure they
have just a little bit of stretch to them
instead.
and the woman who
i wish was walking with me
or on me or i with her,
her skin is what we’d call
olive and her pants are what
we’d call olive and she rolls
and i wait for her
to stop for her
to wipe herself from
the machine so that i
can follow in her
footsteps even though
i am already years closer
to where the ripe
round indigo clouds
roll themselves into
the endlessly opening
olive green
ground.
zakschafer.com 