My father is a walker
Every afternoon
Sometimes during mornings
If his schedule allows
Rarely at night
He would
Wear his workout clothes
Prepare his drinks
Warm up his muscles
Plug up his treadmill
And walk for sixty minutes
Sixty long minutes
He starts slow
Eases from one to two
Then three to four
At the tail end of sixty
He powers it up to five
It is the same routine
The same sound
Of rhythmic shoe shuffling
He has been at it for years
Three long years
Sometimes I would try my math
To know how long and how far
He had shuffled
Over one thousand hours
Under six thousand kilometers
All those times
All those miles
Facing a window
With a terrible view
Sometimes I play some music
Or a movie with good dialogue
Or start a conversation
About space, dinosaurs, God
About anything really
For his sake
But something tells me
He would keep walking
Despite the boredom
Despite the weariness
Because my father
He is a walker

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