2019-04-15 09:57:16 UTC
so park it here, and share the ride
vicariously, as Boston's Globe
projects upon your frontal lobe.
Just the facts, ma'am. Just the facts.
Yesterday I wore short slacks,
and knew I needed a new shirt. See,
the one I'd worn was torn and dirty,
so since I'm not a real bright fellow,
I picked a tight light shirt, quite yellow
in fact. It acts as an alert
to passers by. Why? My new shirt
illuminates my gait, and jogs
the sight of those who drive in fogs.
There are things I cannot say
due to events of yesterday.
I cannot say that you should run
for love, or money, or just for fun.
I cannot say where you should go
to get away from all you know.
I cannot say who, what, why, how
you go. I surely don't know, now.
All that I can say as one
runner is, I have to run.
Nimble minds, accumulate.
Cumulonimbus clouds crowd the sky.
Runners fly by, staccato cadenced,
as sweet sweat fragrances the air.
Somewhere on the ground, a sound
stops time in its tracks, and traces of faces
are drawn on dented cement pavements.
Curb your enthusiasm. Time marches on.