The Man Who Began to Verb
@YevheniiDubrovski The Man Who Began to Verb He used to mountain the mornings, stride the streets, and thunder up the stairs, his heart a red-throated engine, his blood a brass band in the squares. Now he carefuls every staircase, handrails the banister, slow-walks the hall, and pockets his keys like a miser who suspects the world might shoplift them all. His knees have begun their committee work, each joint a parliament of old complaints; his hips weather the weather in private, his back hieroglyphs its ortho restraints. He spectacles the menu, squints at the bill, and glasses the clock as if time might explain why yesterday’s boy still inhabits his mirror while today’s man is mostly a weather vane. His hair has snowed without asking permission, his temples have wintered, his waist has run amok; his belt has been notched into smaller ambitions, his shirts refuse to remain safely tucked. Yet love still brightens him, quick as a match; he winks at his wife, who has seen every goof. She ...
