A poem I’m still working on:
On my run uphill, I take the winding root
orbiting layers of city gas: piss and weed
paint and honeysuckle. Past a man fermenting
for too long – his teeth mush, foot pickled.
I nod. I feel your pain brother, except not at all.
My thighs ache like your head tickles.
One day running won’t be so selfish;
we’ll sap volts from our joints, tap oil from bone.
I’ll run this here hill to give reserves – better than blood;
homes, salt baths, and second chances for all.
At the crest of the hill, dusk runs though me like thin brandy.
Released from the sun, I start my tumble downwards
under a canopy of elm trees, a funnel through evening traffic
for my body’s glugging atoms, to our rented plywood door.
I’m late, but still she smiles. The steam from her soup,
rich and salty, holds my heart, a single electron,
off the linoleum floor.