Through the window I view a Fred Astaire Dance Studio, two vacant handicap spots, a license plate ‘BY FAITH’ and that same silver corvette.
I look around and plug in my iPod. Three balls hang on the wall, four muted TV screens, and five treadmills running yet standing still. ‘Who Shot the Sheriff’ plays in my ear. The same old, same old are here, cousin Kay’s doppelganger, the pick-up truck guy glued to Fox News, tattooed ESPN man in slip-on shoes, Mr. Sweatpants watching NASDAQ, and on GMA a panda eats bamboo at the zoo.
After about 15 minutes on the treadmill, a transformation takes place. A train whistle sounds. I am running on the top of a moving train, rock climbing in South Africa, trekking in New Zealand bush, running from a hungry lion, biking in a critical mass.
out of nowhere
the muse appears