Dragons by Devin Johnston

Author:Devin Johnston
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux

AT FIFTY: A LETTER

On Saturday morning, feeling fit,

I set out on a five-mile race

that starts and ends at Grace Court.

Summer has not yet relented,

here in mid-September,

but I found my rhythm easily,

moving downhill without pressure

through shadows, over fallen leaves,

among the breathing runners.

When I hit the three-mile mark

at the bottom of Old Salem,

my stopwatch read 22:10.

The course then climbed a long hill

on the new strollway beside Main;

then down, and up again

on First Street by the Rainbow

and Modern Chevrolet.

There I walked for ten seconds.

Redacted, blank, an interval

of who knows what duration …

I found myself sitting on a curb

trying hard not to pass out,

a fuzz of static in my brain.

As runners strode by, hands on hips,

I realized I was past the finish

clutching a small stick

with a very large number on it.

Police appeared with a cup of ice

and only left on my insistence

I felt better. But then the sun

came out from behind a cloud

and I worried that I couldn’t move

myself into the shade.

With a wave, I stopped a passerby

and asked for a hand, my speech slurred.

She guided me to an open hydrant

where I could cool my head.

Eventually I got to my feet

and tottered home, recovered some,

went to the mountain, and took a nap.

When I awoke, I remembered crossing

the finish line, but without strength

to walk through the chute and take my stick.

I glimpsed someone in front of me

I took to be your uncle Dave,

unlikely as that sounds:

the same long energetic stride,

the same shaved neck and slight stoop.

When I tried to call him, I said Dev!

while realizing it wasn’t you,

and so corrected myself to Dave!

Walking away, he turned to his friend

and muttered, He seems a bit confused.

I must have stood stock-still for minutes

before I staggered through the crowd.

It was like a stroke, but heatstroke

from not pausing at the water stops.

Remembering my foolishness

at the curb, as you might touch

a bruise to test its tenderness,

I sank into depression.

As usual, this spread

to every level of my life

for ten minutes, then I pushed back

from such thoughts. I’m fine now.

I hope you are enjoying school

and working through the Odyssey

with all its detours and digressions.

I’d rather you be there

(dozing in your carrel

behind a palisade of books)

than helping me through the gate.

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