The Rowing Man by Nicholas Ingalls

 
A blurry mirrored reflection of the boat,
Ripples where the oars break the glass
Surface. Attached to heaving bronze muscles
Already tired, aching, a dull pain
At the inner depths of his tan biceps.
A daily routine, wake up at six each
Morning when the suns golden swords barely
Visible above the horizon, air
Turns a blended palette of purples and
Yellow. The sun now sailing through the sky
Rowing workouts consume the long mornings.
Crackling yelling from the motorboat out
In front. Row. Row. Row. The voice exploding
Never stopping. Gliding across the
Water. The people on the shore are dressed
Formally, the man in the boat doesn’t
Understand why anyone would dress up
At a park. The idea foreign, his
Rowing team American, training for
The race to be held, two weeks later.
The scenery once dynamic, once new,
Now dull, static, like a painting sitting
On a wall for a lifetime, dust gathered
On the painting turning the color to
Ash. Faded are the walls upon which the
Painting sits, only noticed when removed,
To see the true color, what it once was,
So many years ago. Row. Row. Row. Row.
The man shakes the thought from his mind, easy
To be distracted, on an endless glide.