I cycle the scant half-mile to the boat launch.
It takes me nearly half an hour to swim
half a mile across the choppy, floppy lake.
I make it halfway back up the hill before
I have to stand up on the pedals to pump to the top,
trailing half the weed of the Great Lakes in my wake.
I am half a century old, which in cat years
is practically Methusaleh. Even so
my mother’s mantra haunts me:
Never do things by halves;
when I get home, I eat the whole cookie.