of his home in the dead of the night
doing bare-knuckle push-ups
in the middle of an asphalt driveway.
Unsure of the why and the how,
Ivan was equally unaware
as to the when of his start.
Nevertheless, there he was,
powering effort-fully through the nineties,
certain only of a burning desire to stop.
But then when?
Ninety-five? Ninety-nine?
Could Ivan meet the century mark?
Just another push or three.
Sweat trickled from the hairline
about his ears and traced dual paths
along both of his jaw-lines.
Leaking from his fauceted chin,
it puddled on the cool concrete below.
His fists were warm.
He was bleeding. Ivan’s form
was abandoning him. His head
was leading
his neck, his shoulders and his arching back
towards the moonlit sky-night.
The wave of his motion
loosed his foreknuckled grip
of the ground. They slid
with each rep now.
Granules of dirt dug deep into his skin and mixed
with his blood. His calves
quivered at the peak of his push.
Ivan's arms were mush.
His heart beat faster
and he started to cry.
Ivan was losing control.
STILL UP NEXT: TIGER VS. FEDERER "Who's the GOAT?"
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