Epiphany

Speaking now for just a minute,
as if my world had you within it,
of where we'd be, my world and me,
within this whispered poetry,
and see that we'd be bound by just
time, this rhyme, our faith and trust.

Each morning, I run myself blue in the face.

I run myself all the way through the rat race.
I ran until I am completely out of breath.
I’ve learned that I can run myself to death.

So stop right now, or follow through
step by step. First one, then two
feet advanced by chance or choice
will give a focused mind its voice.

You may run, but you cannot Hyde,

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.