My Brother And Treadmill Poem by Natasa To

My brother bought a treadmill in the middle of July,

Declared, "This is the summer that I learn to fly."

He laced his shoes with warrior flair,

Tied his headband tight with care,

And faced the blinking console like a rival eye to eye.



The treadmill hummed a steady tune,

A plastic-hearted monsoon,

Promising miles that went nowhere fast.

"Five minutes warm-up, " it gently lied—

My brother puffed with swelling pride—

Certain this burst of zeal would last.



He ran as if the floor were lava,

As if the living room were Java,

Streaming code beneath his feet.

But beads of sweat began to race,

Outpacing him in that small space,

Dripping in surrender at retreat.



"Speed up! " he cried. The treadmill did.

It has no mercy, nor does it kid.

It whirs with cold mechanical grace.

His arms windmilled, heroic, wild—

Half grown man and half lost child—

Determination stretched across his face.



Yet something changed at minute ten:

The rhythm settled in him then.

His breath and belt began to rhyme.

He wasn't running from or to—

Just being there, in that looping view,

Traveling miles inside of time.



Now every dawn, before the light,

He greets that humming strip of night.

They understand each other well.

My brother runs; the treadmill stays—

One chasing strength through quiet days,

One spinning stories it won't tell.



And though he never leaves the room,

He carves out space for something new—

A steadier heart, a clearer head.

Miles that measure more than ground,

Victories without a sound,

On a path of moving thread.