Run
The neckline is faux-torn,
which is embarrassing.
The stitched Nike logo
puckers the tissue-weight
white fabric. It hasn't held
up well. I laugh––each time––
at myself for buying it.
I put it on.
I hook my running
shoes by the dingy heel cuffs,
swinging them off the shoe rack.
I clip my bite-sized iPod Shuffle
to my flimsy shirt.
I pony-tail my hair.
I stick my mouth sideways
into the pelting tap water,
slurping what I should have
consumed instead of three
cups of coffee. I leave
the house.
I lock the door. I put my key into
the pocket that lies flat
against my back.
I pull down my shades.
I have already walked
the dog. It is hot. There is
a breeze. Men are building
a new house right in front
of me. I have nowhere
to go.
I'm only running,
running, running
up this slow, endless hill
in the middle of the day
because there is music
in my ears, my legs
do what I say, and
I am savagely
grateful.
----Sara Lewis Holmes (all rights reserved)
A Cast of One
Thursday, May 15, 2008
