Skip or Be Skipped

Did you know skipping
is the most efficient way to move—
Soft on knees,
stingy with energy,
faster than it has any right to be.

Jogging?
A lumbering affair.
But still, the neighbors
plod their loops,
faces set like solemn clocks.

Meanwhile,
little girls float by—
ponytails bouncing,
knees like springs—
as if they were born
with the secret
science only just discovered.

Funny, isn’t it?
I tried to skip last night.
My legs forgot the rhythm,
my grown-up frame
too serious to lift off.

When did I lose it—
that airy, laughing motion?
And why did no one tell me
I’d misplaced
something so delightful?

It must have slipped out
quietly,
between errands and emails,
left behind like a mitten
on a classroom floor—
bright red,
forgotten, then missed,
and waiting to be found again.