I blow day in day out
swinging my hose like an elephant
of 42 years
If those in the cool gym pay little eye to my shuffle
tis my rumbling load of 50lbs –a delicate tortilla chip under the bar to bench
Still reassured am I for aerobic damsels appreciate a cleared brick walkway
all year round.
But some I've heard complain
When my roaring engine climbs to the 34th floor penthouse
as easy as a soaring bird
And once not hearing
I blew into a fellow blowing colleague
a spiraling leaf stuck onto my sticky chin
and my aftershave osmosed into it.
My blower and I are close –even my kidneys have adapted to the vibrations
I have taken it with me to restaurants
(at the MOMA I blew beside Rembrandts and Monets, the depiction of fertile soiled
foregrounds stimulated me to the point that my hose knocked over a lady)
I have blown the peaks of Mont Blanc and the Everest
As well as the highest dune in the Sahara.
After some time I learned to blow blueberries on my pancake
and my children enjoy how quickly I can cool their hot broth for diner
or send a bowling ball down the lane
One day I wish is to blow a thread through a needle!
Nevertheless, after all these years of ex-suction (you guessed, my youth was mired
as an office vacuum cleaner), it are the 32 acres of my Condo complex
That inspires me to blow, blow hard, and blow best.