Push-Ups of My Youth

I used to do push-ups
sometimes 80 all at once
strength of youth
before injured shoulders
time taking away the
multiple sets, recorded in notebook

diligent persistence to possess
muscles, vigorous physique of man
chin touching earth, wood, tile, sand
chest hovering, pulsating fingers
masters of force, pressing
always pushing down

ground harder now
mind more steady with years
of meditation
palms rest on lap
body just a body
breathing in and out

What Is Football?

What is football?
days watching men collide
between beer commercials
hours spent, taken by
network television

What is football?
toss the pigskin, eat grilled meat
tailgate with chubby fans
wearing jerseys in parking lots
full of charcoal and puke

What is football?
weightlifting, combine, chalk lines
running 40 yard sprints
hands reaching out, cradling
touchdowns, drunk cheers and jeers

What is football?
sleep-deprived coaches studying
film, like planning D-Day’s invasion
toradol shots blocking pain to
endure injuries that linger lifelong

What is football?
bull in the ring, he got his bell rung
concussion, brain banging, cells dying
headaches, depression, careers over
hobbled husbands, broken bodies

Summer Beard

Whiskers start in June
mostly black, some gray
pushing through skin
like sunflowers they emerge
carefree, unrestrained by razors
of other seasons
when they are scraped away
like speckled truth
man’s primitive nature hemmed.
Summertime, I let them grow for days
like a backpacker searching
for my lost youth.
Long hours of shadowy sun
my face like time
standing still.

Yoga

Closed eyes meditating, my butt sitting on a yoga mat, the one I bought at Whole Foods, the one that my hands slip on when I sweat, which is usually. Class hasn’t started yet, but I can sense them, surrounding me, their mats slapping the floor, stretching in their Lululemon pants, the women. I don’t have to open my eyes to know they are there, flexible, strong, relaxed, focused. A few minutes later the teacher welcomes us, thank you for being here, for being present to yourself. I open my eyes, take a quick look around, sometimes see another me, a guy with hairy legs, but not this time. Ladies, what would you like to work on today? Ellen asks, then makes eye contact with me. Daniel, something you’d like to work on? She says with a smile. I’ve been at it for more than a year; Vinyasa, Flow, Kundalini, Restorative, each class an inner and outer adventure, a 75 minute voyage, breathing into tendons, muscles, discovering hidden recesses of my body’s stress. I make no suggestions for Ellen, soon find myself on my back, legs far apart, like I’m giving birth to twins. Downward Dog, Warrior 2, Plank, Happy Baby, Pigeon, names that sound like video games, my contorted limbs pressing into earth and air. Eyes stay closed, but occasionally I peek, we look like kids playing a sophisticated version of Simon Says. Minutes pass, life loosening its hold, I forget where I am. Shavasana, corpse pose, Ellen’s tranquil voice offers us simulated death, an ending. I hear sighs, relief, rest fills the space. My mind wanders off to the future, wonders how it will be with me, those final breaths, then namaste.

Meditating at the French Club

The French Club in San Francisco, where wealthy men eat, drink, and smoke cigars. Perfect spot for a teetotaling, mostly vegan, meditator like me. Why do you go? You might ask. I probably shouldn’t, but I’ve never been one of those righteous, vegan, meditation people, the kind who constantly judge others. I have a close friend who’s a member of the club and usually go when he invites me, maybe three times a year.

I went last Friday for lunch. Daytime at the French Club is jacket, no tie, with no women allowed. The elevator opens on the 8th floor, a large black and white photo of Paris greets us, followed by image after image of tuxedoed men with contented smiles, leisurely cradling drinks. Over a hundred years old, the club is a throwback to a time when genders were separated. Tall men, big men, greet me, shake my hand firmly, ask about my family. Cocktails before lunch, white wine, rum, vodka tonic, whatever you want. I opt for a sparkling water. I always opt for some version of water. Tap water, still water, water with ice, bubbly water.

All the members bring expensive wine bottles to share at the meal. I sit down at the main table, ten empty glasses greet me, five for whites, five for reds, like crystal ships waiting to transport me away for the afternoon. The servers come around with the white wines. I’m not drinking today, I say, as they are about to pour, a half second of awkwardness, like telling someone I have four toes. The glasses fill up around the table, about 24 other men, and me the lone dry guy. Conversation starts out like trading baseball cards, my Pacific Heights home, your golf game, my Master’s from Dartmouth, your daughter about to get married in Lake Como. After the lobster risotto the wine has softened the men up, they circulate around the table, grab shoulders, laugh more freely. Then comes pheasant on a bed of potato puree and carrots, the red wines flow.

I’m surrounded by swirling pinots, burgundies, sipped, caressed, quaffed. The younger me would have looked for conversation, inserted talking into the scene, but I now know I have nothing to say. Instead, I find my breath and start meditating. Short inhales at first, my stomach a bit too full. But after about a minute, I’m back in me. I sit for quiet seconds there, my eyes open, focused on the sun’s light coming through the window.

Eventually the chocolate flourless cake arrives to end my meditation. I take slow bites, listen to the buzzed euphoria of the room. I wonder if they are all happy, really happy underneath the food and booze, but then I let them be, focus on my breath again.