by Mark Yeow
You can tell a person’s life by the way they walk. Plodders whose feet scuff at the dirt, trying but not hard enough to push back time. The daydreamers who dawdle at birds and flowers and plastic bags in the wind. The hurriers stumble and fumble in their scurrying FROM; the marchers adopt military pace in a clip-clop quest TO. Only a few realize you don’t need to walk. I used to jetpack until a gang wearing trout’s-head masks pulled me down and broke half the bones in my body. Now it even hurts to hobble.