Running Man

Oh man, running on 119th Street with dripping head
Bent down to the sidewalk,
Oblivious to all around you,
With electronic death alert gadget
Strapped to your arm,
Face red as on fire,
With holy knee brace,
Smelling of Tiger Rub,
Wishing your run was over
As the pace of your stride repeats
“Running from what, Running from what?”
As you pulverize your reconstructed hip joints
The fear mounts in you
That you may hear the sound of the heart monitor
Flat line you as you pseudo-jog at the red light
Irritated and burned by its redness,

The fear that you may fall face first
Into your healthy breakfast at First Watch
Entices you to run faster and faster,
Catching up with the woman who merely
Walks fast with arms flinging wildly,
Throwing elbows at unknown dog walkers,
Who worries about the wideness of her hips,
Blaming her husband and children for her girth
As you, Running Man, pass by her in grim despair,
Thinking to yourself, “I’m in better shape than she is,”
Making the turn at Quivira Road,
The Gold Medal of all Runners flashes in your mind,
As you hear the signal of the monitor fade.