I run this town, I’ll have you know.
Although I tend to run real slow,
I run at dawn. I’ll run until dark,
from my front lawn, through Perryville Park
to Perry Point, and by the Pier
in a dense fog, when skies are clear.
So, 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 run until I am completely out of breath,
and 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 if Boston's Globe
were projected 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,
as runners fly by, staccato cadenced,
and 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.