The sidewalks teemed with joggers Thursday, when
I ambled to the store before the heat.
I wondered if tradition summoned men
and women in their shorts to pavement-meet
for exercise – a Thursday concrete run
to counter Taco Tuesday’s calories?
They didn’t look like they were having fun,
in steaming sun and eighty-one degrees.

But I’m an immigrant to weekday light.
It’s been two score and three since I’ve had time
at home when others work. It’s now all right
to nap or read or try selecting rhyme.
I’m stunned with time; I never understood
diurnal customs in my neighborhood.