The Iron Horse

By C. Stephen Witty

A lack of vittles
To the sturdy leg

Starves the muscles
Weakens the tissue

Tightens the skin
Neurons stumble

It doesn’t work
So good anymore

What was that word?
How do you do that thing?

And if you’re
Say Lou Gehrig

Blurry–eyed
You tip your cap

Turn and say
To your admirers

“I’m the luckiest man
On the face of the earth”

Thinking “they’re clapping
I’m dying”

Still, with a glimmer,
Conjuring

Something new
Maybe fresh spring air

Rushing madly through
An open window