Eternal Optimist

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Each morning the walker walks.
His arms swing like overripe
apples on a tree.
Each morning the walker is pointed, searing.
His direction is sharper than brandished knives.
Each morning the walker is quick footed.
His feet are eager dogs.
Each morning the walker
is headed toward a shining place.
He wants to survive till men reside on Mars.
He desires impervious lungs, pink as evening sky.
Physical utopia is merely steps away,

the walker thinks.

One more step. One more step.


© Lamont Palmer

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